Our Little Secret (34 page)

How could they? How could they do this to me? After everything we shared yesterday. It felt like love.

But they only loved each other.

I’m aware of a buzzing and, trying to control my breathing, I go to the door.

For a second I think it might be Edward. That this is all a big ruse to get rid of Marnie, so that we can be on our own, but it’s just a fleeting thought. I know they’ve gone. I know this is final.

I open the door. A guy who looks like a driver stands sheepishly on the doorstep.

‘Miss. We have to leave, to get you to your flight.’

What does he know about my flight? I glare at him and he recoils from my look.

‘What did they tell you? What did they pay you?’ I yell at him. ‘Are you working for them? Are you in on this scam?’

Because it does feel like a scam. It feels like I’ve been played, in some fundamental way, and the impotent fury that I feel is out of control. I feel like I’m a dragon who wants to flame-breathe anyone in my way.

‘Hey, lady, I’m just from the cab company. Just following what the controller told me.’

He looks worried, and I know he’s telling the truth. He looks nervous. Like he’s just a regular guy.

He glances behind me. I see him clocking the notes all over the floor. All that money: 30,000 dollars. That is what they have paid for their ultimate fantasy. That is what I’m worth. It’s written on the back of the envelope. A little pencil number. That’s how I’ve been bought. I know it’s a fortune, but it feels insultingly little. Because I don’t want their
money
.

‘I can come back in a while,’ he says. ‘Wait till you’re ready.’

But ready for what?

The fairground ride is over.

80

The tears come as I sit in the back of the cab. I don’t even try to hide them, and I sense the cab driver glancing nervously in the rear-view mirror.

‘Boyfriend trouble?’ he ventures, after one particularly choked sob.

I shake my head. What has happened to me is too cataclysmic to begin to explain. I can’t be sure I could even explain the full Technicolor gamut of emotion that I’m experiencing.

The ridiculousness of describing Edward as a boyfriend is not lost on me. He wasn’t a boyfriend. He was someone –
is
someone – that I love truly and deeply. And I was so convinced, up until just a few hours ago, that he felt the same.

How could he do this to me? Is total severance what Edward wants, or has Marnie imposed that? How could he endorse such a cruel letter? Doesn’t he feel anything at all? It’s just the rejection – oh, man, the overwhelming and absolute rejection – that gets me. The fact that I gave them everything of myself, bared myself utterly and completely, and they just . . . vanished. Vanished like thieves in the night. Closed ranks and left.

I’m so underslept and overwrought and shocked that all I can do is sit, helpless, as the great waves of emotion rush over me. I am awash with snot and tears, and in the fifty minutes it takes the driver to get me to the airport, I hardly pause from crying.

I’ve barely noticed where we’re going, so I’m surprised when the cab stops outside a large, glitzy-looking terminal.

‘This is Departures,’ he says. ‘You’ll be met just inside the door. I’ll get you a trolley.’

I wipe my eyes ineffectually and try and find some shades in my handbag. My nose is red and blotchy. I blow out breath from my mouth, trying to regain some sort of control. I force myself to get out of the cab and watch as the cabbie smiles apologetically and loads up my pink wheelie-case from the trunk. I can tell he is confused. I don’t really look like a first-class kind of traveller.

I fumble around and, with no smaller change, offer him fifty dollars. His eyes widen.

‘No, Miss, really. I can’t. I’ve been paid in full. Seriously.’

The Parkers have thrown money at him, too, then. Paid for his efficiency and discretion. Paid him to make their embarrassing problem go away.

Where are they now, I wonder? Back in Thousand Acres, advertising for a new nanny for the kids? Lining up their next victim. How will they explain my sudden absence to Gundred and Laura? But, even as I think it, I know that my absence will make absolutely no difference to any of them. That they’ll just carry on like before.

The airport is blissfully air-conditioned and the hushed, carpeted comfort of the first-class lounge feels kind of dreamy. I’m offered breakfast and juice, but I can’t eat anything. My bag is whisked away, and I’m told by a woman in perfect make-up that the plane has been delayed, due to bad weather in England. She hopes my stay in the first-class lounge will be very comfortable. She guides me, as if I’m an invalid, to the seriously squashy leather armchairs by the window. I get the feeling that she’s talking to me as if I’ve been recently bereaved. In a way, I have. I can sense that it’s on the tip of her tongue to ask me who has died.

‘Would you like to use one of our complimentary laptops whilst you’re waiting?’ she asks softly, pushing a MacBook across the table. ‘Free Wi-Fi. Help yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ I mutter.

Bad weather in England.

England.

Oh God, just the thought of home. Of FunPlex, and Dad in the flat, and Ryan and Scott. It feels like it’s hurtling towards me, like a tornado in the distance, and I know I’m stuck in its path, ready to get sucked into oblivion.

Manchester flashes onto the Departures board with a ‘Delayed’ notice next to it. I swallow hard, trying to compose myself. My tears have led to a sort of startled numbness, and I stare out of the window for a long time at the scorching tarmac, the mirage of heat mirroring my thoughts. Then I pull the computer towards me and log into my email. There’s a barrage of unopened emails, but they’re mostly from online shopping companies, a couple from the bank, and loads from Tiff and Scott.

There’s ones from Gundred, too, from before I got to America. What would she do if she knew what I’d done last night with the Parkers? She’d be horrified. I slept with Edward, then with Marnie, and then I slept with them together. It doesn’t sound like very responsible nanny-like behaviour. It sounds like the actions of a crazy woman.

Am I crazy? A crazy sex addict?

Is that why they’re sending me away?

I turn my attention back to my in-box, scanning for something from Edward, but I know there won’t be anything. Marnie has severed him from me forever. She’s made that perfectly clear.

I brace myself and open the last email from Scott. It was sent yesterday:

I feel a tortured kind of pang. I didn’t come away to sort my head out. I came away to have an adventure, but in the process I’ve totally scrambled myself. Like I’ve wiped my hard drive.

I stare at Scott’s words, feeling overwhelmingly sad. Because the truth is: I wasn’t ever unhappy with him. I remember the familiarity and safety of his grubby bedsit and the predictability of our sex life. The times we laughed in the pub. The crap TV we watched together, our ceaseless failure to win the Lotto. Why wasn’t that enough? Why wasn’t I satisfied with that jokey companionship? That kind of relationship would be more than enough for most people.

Why did I have to go and stick my hand in the fire?

Because I can only blame myself. I chose this. Well, not to feel like this, right now. But I chose adventure. I was looking for thrills. I was looking for life to be different, challenging, exciting. And I found it, in spades.

I walked into the situation at Thousand acres with my eyes open. I might have been deluded, but I never pushed for answers, like I should have. I never questioned the Parkers. I was happy to be dazzled by them and their extraordinary lives. I got swept up in the fantasy, and now I’ve been spat out on the other side.

In twenty-four hours I could be back at home, down the pub with my old gang, and back in Scott’s bed, as if nothing has happened.

But everything has happened.

And I realize with a sickening jolt that, whatever the future holds, I can never go back. That even if I fly to Manchester, I’ll just get straight on a train to London and start again. I doubt I’ll even tell anyone I’m home.

I’m just about to pack up the laptop when I see a new email. It’s a Facebook friend-request from Harry Poulston.

81

It’s a long time since I’ve logged into Facebook. There are so many notifications. The world has been jabbering on in my absence. Scott has changed his status to single – despite his needy email.

I ignore them all, accept Harry’s friend-request, and immediately a direct message pings up.

Hi Sophie. Do you have any time to talk?

I stare at the words, and the blinking cursor waiting for my reply. Why have I let him into my life? I’m about to type that my plane is about to leave and I don’t want to talk to him, but realize that I’ve just accepted his friend-request and, if I tell him I’m leaving, he’ll want to know why. Do I have time to talk to him?

Why am I even thinking of speaking to him? Because he’s my last possible link to the Parkers? Because I want to know what he knows – the secrets he’s hinted at. Harry is the only person who will enlighten me as to just what a huge mug I’ve been.

But it’s too late. I’m leaving. My chance has gone, surely?

And then it hits me.

I don’t have to leave on a plane at all.

Since I opened the Parkers’ letter this morning, I’ve just been going along with their plan, like an automaton. Still on the conveyer belt of their wishes.

But they don’t have to be in charge any more. They’ve given me enough money for me to make different choices.

Sure
, I type back.

Sixty SoHo. Say, 7 p.m.?

I confirm it, but I have no idea what or where he’s talking about. I google it and realize it’s a funky boutique hotel with a rooftop bar in SoHo, in Lower Manhattan. I feel a sharp sensation, like I’ve been woken up from a sleep with a slap.

I quickly call the hotel and, without even planning it, a lie trips off my tongue. About how I’m Edward Parker’s PA and I’m staying in town for a couple of nights to oversee a gallery show. Do they have a suite? Oh, good. Yes, that sounds perfect.

The thrill of making a hotel booking that I’m going to pay for in cash ignites me.

Suddenly, I can’t sit still. I can’t stay here. I won’t stay here.

‘Miss! Miss!’ the assistant calls, as I stride towards the ‘Exit’ doors. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m not taking the flight.’

‘But your bag . . .’

I wave my hand. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I need to get out of here. And fast.

82

It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever checked into a hotel by myself and, despite being a complete novice, I manage to bluff it out. It helps that the hotel staff are so nice to me. The Parker name clearly carries some weight around here. I half-hope they’ll check with Edward that I’m for real – that I am his PA. I entertain a fantasy that he’ll show up here. That everything will be OK. But the staff don’t check with his office; they just take my word for it.

I’m shown up to my colossal suite, which is just achingly cool. There’s a huge king-size bed with the fluffiest of duvets, and I can see a large marble bath in the bathroom. There’s funky Latino jazz playing softly. I tip the bell-hop, again with a fifty-dollar note, and when I explain that the airline has lost my suitcase, he organizes for Lauren, a hipster personal shopper, to come to my room.

Lauren – slim, mid-twenties, snakeskin trousers – arrives moments later. She explains that she has a great relationship with a boutique around the corner and, if I don’t like anything, it can be returned. I want to tell her that I’m mates with JoJo over in José’s boutique in the Meatpacking District, but I don’t. Instead I explain that I have a meeting later with a journalist, which is actually true, and that I need make-up and some underwear. I also assure her that money is not a problem.

Ha! Money is not a problem
.

Money has
always
been a huge problem in my life, but now I have 30,000 dollars burning a hole in my pocket and it feels like, now I’ve started, I just need to spend the lot. Fuck the Parkers and their blood-money!

As soon as Lauren has gone, I flop down onto the bed and sink into its luxury softness. Then I strip off and get into an oversized terrycloth robe. I can’t bear to be naked for too long. I still feel too exposed.

In minutes, the coffee and croissants I’ve ordered arrive and are placed on the table on the private balcony, which has an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline.

I stare out at the view as I sit alone and pour my coffee. I could be on a plane to rainy Manchester, but instead I’m here. In New York. In the heart of things. It’s so unexpected that it feels unreal, like I’ve shaken off a skin and emerged like a different person. I’m no longer the Sophie Henshaw of old. But I’m not sure who this new me is. I guess I’ll just have to make her up as I go along.

I notice, though, that at least I’ve stopped crying. Lifting my face to the sun, letting my ears fill with the sounds of the traffic and people on the street below, I have at least salvaged something from my earlier despair. I’ve staked a claim on myself, before it was too late.

I sigh, open my eyes and squint at the view. Somewhere in all those buildings is Marnie’s boutique. I wonder what would happen if I were to go there. Even as I think it, I know I won’t have the nerve. Her note made it very clear: there is to be no contact. I wouldn’t make it through the door. I know that for certain.

Even so, I can’t help wondering where she is. Has she gone into work, after last night, like nothing happened?

Last night. The memory keeps assaulting me. Marnie by the pool. Marnie and me. Marnie and Edward. How could it not have rocked her to her very core? How could she just have walked away? It was so intimate. So real.

It’s like I’ve seen the most amazing film of all time and I have no one to analyse it with, or discuss it with, and now it’s too big an experience to process on my own. Marnie must know that. Which is why what she’s done feels so cruel.