Something Only We Know (2 page)

‘Bloody hell, Jen. If that’s the case then we’re all in trouble.’

I could hear the smile in his voice. At the same time I caught sight of my reflection in the dressing table mirror, standing there in my bra and skirt, and imagined Ned being able to see me like
that. My cheeks grew hot. Behind me on the wall was the countryside mural Dad painted when I was about six, featuring misshapen squirrels and an owl and a rabbit with one mad eye. There were my
shelves above the bed, laden with a jumble of books and ornaments and half-used hair products, and on either side two tall cupboards, both of which were stuffed to the point where you had to jam
the doors closed really quickly or everything fell out. I’d ended up tying a belt round the handles for security. My fake-fur rug was rucked up against the skirting; a tower of CD cases had
collapsed against the wardrobe. Every one of my drawers had a scrap of material poking out. I had not inherited my mother’s cleaning gene.

‘Jen? You still there?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Temporarily distracted by the state of my room.’

‘Gaining the upper hand, is it?’

‘It has gone a bit mental lately. I might actually have to tidy up at some point.’

‘The day pigs go whizzing past the upstairs window.’

‘No. One day soon I’ll sort it. Chuck out the rubbish, streamline what’s left. Invest in some new storage solutions. Remove all traces of my adolescence and bring the place up
to date so that it fits in with my exciting new career.’

‘As long as you don’t take down your Crazy Frog stickers. I bought you those.’

‘Yep, I remember.’ A row of them along the bottom of my book case. Ned had presented me with them as a good luck charm for starting secondary school. ‘Sorry, though, the
amphibians might have to be sacrificed. This room is not an appropriate environment for a thrusting young journo.’

‘I love it when you pretend to be grown up. It’s cute.’

‘Bog off, Neddy. You should probably call my sister now, she’ll be expecting you.’

‘Yup, I’m on the case. Just wanted to speak with you first. In case, you know . . .’

‘I know.’

‘But she’s OK? Really?’

‘She is. We were fine.’

‘Good. Right. See you, then.’

‘See you.’

And ten seconds later, on the other side of the door, came the theme to
White Horses
, which is Helen’s ring tone. It made me jump because I’d never even heard her come up
the stairs. When she wants to, my sister can move round this house like a ghost.

The Chester Messenger
is situated on the top floor, and my desk is by the window, so I can look out over the Rows and watch the shoppers and tourists and men dressed
as Roman centurions leading columns of school kids down Watergate Street. Here, I’m a good distance away from Rosa, Editor and boss, but I’m near Gerry, our other sub, so he can give me
a hand if I get stuck. He’s in his fifties, has been on the paper for thirteen years, and he’s supposed to be training me in practical journalism, although mainly what he says is stuff
like, ‘
Go
get us a Crunchie from the machine, will you, Jen? Milk and two sugars for me if you’re heading for the kettle.’ His theory is that the human mind’s only
capable of concentrating in short bursts, so it’s quite legitimate to continually interrupt my working day with random demands. Maybe he’s right. I’m fresh out of uni, what would
I know?

This morning I was working on a piece for our lifestyle section, Chester Cream. My brief was ‘The Worst Date Ever’, and I’d been tasked with extracting sound bites from emails
and tweets and interviews we’d garnered, and then pasting them together to form a coherent article. Utter fluff it might have been, but I’ll be honest, I was quite enjoying myself.
It’s always entertaining to read about other people’s cock-ups.
He belched in my face
.
He brought his mum along
.
Previously unmentioned WIFE came home and I had to
climb over a gate to escape
. I was thinking how I might group the confessions. The funny ones and the pervy ones, the disgusting ones and the sad, the ones that just sounded like a plain
unvarnished nightmare. Possibly I could rank them, produce a top twenty. That would be quite snappy. It could go on our website as a taster. Then again, some of them were hard to compare. The man
who set his own beard on fire because his date wasn’t paying him enough attention, or the waiter who embarked on a spectacular nosebleed in the middle of serving the soup – which rated
as worse?

I did wonder whether I should chip in anonymously with my own experience, whether Owen might see it and recognise himself. But no, that wouldn’t happen because he never went near
The
Messenger
. He said it was middle-class toss; he said that if people stopped bothering for five minutes about the right shoes to wear or what tat Hollywood film was showing at Cineworld, they
might notice their country was going down the pan and rise up in revolution. So I probably could get away with writing about how, in our last term at uni and after months of mooching round after
him and attending his political debates, handing out flyers for him and stacking chairs, I burst into his room one night and declared my love. Only what I hadn’t realised was that he’d
been on Skype, and a load of his mates were listening in to every word I said. The shame when I’d twigged had been hideous. There’d been a nice outcome, though, when he’d switched
off the laptop and listened, and said he did like me and admired my energy but he wasn’t interested in a girlfriend, he didn’t have time for one. And I’d been so loved-up
I’d just ignored this and kissed him and he kissed me back and shortly afterwards it turned out he was quite interested after all. Happy days.

A warning cough nearby. I looked up from my desk to see Gerry’s eyes on the main door.

‘Our glorious leader’s arrived. Chop chop.’

That would be Rosa, returned from lunch. The rest of us have to grab a sandwich, but my boss dines out nearly every day. Networking, she calls it. She came round the corner of the water cooler,
headed in our direction. Not an attractive woman in the conventional sense – her chin was too strong for that and she was what Dad liked to call ‘broad in the beam’ – but
she did know how to carry herself. Most likely been to finishing school to learn how to walk with a stack of books on her head. Good breeding, confidence, I don’t know what you’d call
it, but she had it. A healthy, forty-something county girl. I’d slipped into the habit of calling her Tweed-knickers when she was out of earshot.

‘Busy, are we?’ she trilled across to Gerry and me.

I nodded guiltily, even though I had nothing to be guilty about.

Gerry said, ‘You had a phone message from the new events manager at the racecourse. I’ve put the number on your desk.’ He does that, throws the conversation back at her,
refuses to be fazed. I tend to blush and lower my eyes, even when I’ve been slaving away on an article for hours.

‘Good.’ She started to walk away, then paused and retraced her steps. ‘Jennifer?’

‘Yes?’

‘How far are you on with the piece on infidelity?’

Infidelity? She’d lost me. ‘Do you mean the worst-ever-dates thing?’

She sighed. ‘No. If I’d meant worst-ever-dates I’d have
said
worst-ever-dates. I mean the piece on infidelity. The tell-tale signs of cheating. That book we were sent.
We talked about it yesterday.’

I glanced over at Gerry but he had his eyes fixed on his PC screen.

‘Oh, right. That. I didn’t realise you needed it immediately. Did you want me to start it now, Rosa?’

‘I believe that’s what I asked for.’

Had she? ‘I thought you needed this date piece finishing.’

‘I do. I need them both, by the end of the day. Or is that going to cause you some kind of problem? Did they not cover multiple deadlines on your university course?’

You didn’t
say
you needed the other article for today
, I wanted to snap back.
It’s not
me
who’s causing the problem here. Last week we
didn’t need the Life Class piece till Friday, so why the rush? If you’re going to change the timetabling, you need to flag it up. I’m not a damn mind-reader.

‘Well?’

What I’d assumed was a rhetorical jibe clearly required a response. ‘Yeah, I’ll get onto it. Do you want me to finish the dating stories first?’

Rosa just rolled her eyes as if the question was more than her patience could bear, then turned on her heel and left.

I waited till she was gone. ‘Hell. What do you think she meant by “the end of the day”, Gerry? Four p.m? Five? In her email folder first thing tomorrow so it’s there when
she comes in?’

He removed the end of his pen from between his teeth. ‘Who can tell?’

‘How am I going to get through both pieces in time?’

‘You’ll just have to squeeze them out. Like toothpaste.’

‘I just don’t get why she has to be so stroppy with me, though. Why did she even hire me if she thinks I’m so useless?’

But I knew the answer to that. Partly it was because Rosa had been impressed with me on paper, with my degree and with my tutors’ references, and she’d offered me the placement
before she’d had chance to realise she didn’t like me in the flesh. Mainly, though, I was kept on because I was an unpaid intern, doing the job for free so as to get my foot on the
ladder. And I considered myself lucky. Of the group I’d graduated with, over half were still unemployed, or in jobs which had nothing to do with the degree. It had taken me nine anxious
months to land this position here.

‘You’re the office junior,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s part of your remit: “Take crap from boss”. We’ve all been there at some point and we’ve all
survived.’

I shot him a grateful glance.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ he went on, ‘I hate to remind you, but you know you’re out this afternoon talking to those American quilters?’

‘Bloody hell, I’m not, am I?’

‘That’s what’s down in The Diary, Jen.’

‘No. No! I’ll phone up and cancel.’

‘You can’t. The photographer’s booked.’

‘Fuck.’

Urgently I began to root around my desk. Within half a minute I’d found the paperback guide to detecting infidelity that Rosa had been on about: two hundred and seventy-five pages, no
pictures except for the stiletto heel squashing a hot dog sausage on the cover. I flicked through, feeling glum. No way would I have time to complete the dating piece, read this book and condense
it into an article by 2 p.m. Unless I just rehashed the accompanying press release, skimmed a few chapter headings, the intro and conclusion and then winged it.

I heard Rosa’s shoes tap-tapping over to Alan on the sports desk. She likes Alan. He flirts with her and he never seems to have deadline crises.

‘Right,’ I said to Gerry. ‘I’m putting on my earphones and I’m going for it. Don’t let anyone disturb me unless the building’s on fire.’

He gave me a little salute.

And with that I was off.

Is he Playing Away? The Seven Deadly Signs

No one likes a paranoid partner. Yes, we’ve all been struck by the odd twinge of jealousy, a flash of insecurity as your other half shares a joke with an attractive colleague, or eyes
a younger woman in the street. That’s normal and it soon passes.

But what if those prickles of concern have recently grown into genuine nagging doubts? What if that sense of suspicion’s beginning to invade every corner of your life? A new book by
Professor Lally Pike
, Nail That Cheat!
, explains how the answer might not lie with you, but in what your husband or boyfriend gets up to when you’re not around. Check our list of
possible danger signs to tell whether your fears might be justified.

Looks
: Has your man been trying out a new image? Taking the trouble to style his hair where before he just ran a comb through and was done?
Perhaps he’s been showering more frequently, or buying himself lots of new clothes. Ask yourself – who’s he making this effort for? Whose sartorial advice might he be
taking?

Secrecy
: The classic ploy of a cheating man is to take his mobile into another room to answer it. But watch out too for him closing his email
down quickly when you walk in, or the installing of secret passwords which he never bothered with before. What’s he trying to hide? If they’re totally innocent, why can’t these
messages be shared with you?

Moods
: If he’s been grumpier than usual, there might be a sinister reason. Modern life can certainly be stressful with its different
demands, but if he’s been niggling over details and picking pointless fights then it could be a guilty conscience rising to the surface. Or perhaps he WANTS to put himself in the doghouse,
then he can justify looking elsewhere.

Timetables
: Has he changed the hours he’s been working? Perhaps his boss keeps asking him to work late or springing surprise meetings
which mustn’t be missed. There could even be nights away at conferences or training courses. Sure, there are some professions which eat into your free time, but if you’re noticing a
radical departure from normal office patterns then it could be a signal to start investigating.

Names
: Has one particular name started cropping up just a little too much in general chit chat? Does a certain person seem to find her way
into a lot of his anecdotes? It could be because she’s absorbing your partner’s mind. These mentions don’t even have to be complimentary – they could be neutral or even
hostile. A man sometimes hides his interest underneath a barrage of critical comments, the same way the little boy in the playground will yank the plaits of the girl he secretly fancies.

Famine
: How are things in the bedroom? You could find your sex life’s stalling because his energies are being diverted. Look out for
signs such as his being permanently tired, or achy/sick/stressed. Perhaps he no longer comes to bed at the same time as you to avoid any advances, or won’t undress with you in the room for
fear of revealing love bites or scratches.