Summer Secrets (7 page)

“Good? That’s it? What’s your husband like?”

“He’s very good-looking,” she said, which was about the nicest thing she could think of to say about him. “And he’s a good person. I think.”

Brooks raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

Audrey visibly deflated. Sick of pretending everything was fine, sick of pretending to be happy, sick of being the downtrodden wife, she looked Brooks in the eye and took a deep breath. “He’s pompous. And cold. And distant. And I’ve never been so lonely in my life.”

They looked at each other in shock. And Audrey started to laugh. Peals of laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had no idea why she was laughing, only that she couldn’t stop. Until she felt Brooks taking her hand and holding it gently, and when she looked at him he was not laughing with her. In his eyes she saw empathy, and kindness, and a longing that she instantly recognized; she felt the same way.

This excitement cannot turn into anything more, she told herself, excusing herself to go to the bathroom, seeing her bright eyes in the mirror. It is just a lovely new friendship. Whatever is going on here—and it was clear to her by that time that they both had feelings that could be dangerous—it cannot lead to anything.

They were the last to leave. As they walked up the street, Audrey still slightly unsteady on her feet, brushing shoulders with Brooks, bumping into him every few steps, their hands sliding together, as her fingers intertwined with his, neither of them looking at each other, neither of them saying a word.

I shouldn’t be doing this, she thought, feeling his thumb rub her hand, her breath almost stopping. But she couldn’t remove her hand, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything other than relish the feeling of her hand in his.

And when they reached Aunt Judith’s, and he turned and pulled her in, placed his hands on the side of her face and gazed into her eyes, his head moving closer and closer as her heart threatened to leap out of her body, she still couldn’t say anything, couldn’t think of anything other than his mouth landing on hers.

And when he took her by the hand and led her not up the garden path to Aunt Judith’s but next door, through the gate and up the path to his house, when he stood before her in the living room, lifted the tunic over her head, traced his fingers down the side of her neck, over her breasts, hooked them into her panties, leaving her naked and yearning, still she couldn’t speak.

“Audrey,” he whispered, scooping her up and carrying her to his bedroom, laying her on the bed as every nerve and fiber in her body jumped and tingled, as if electricity were coursing through her.

And still she didn’t speak.

However she imagined he would look naked, it could not possibly have been as good as how he felt. His skin was warm, his lips so soft as he kissed, licked, sucked, murmured, nibbled every inch of her body, his tongue reaching into places Richard had never gone, as Audrey quivered and moaned, reaching for him to kiss, over and over.

She had never known what she had been missing.

She had never known how it was supposed to be.

Six

London, 1998

“What
about
my father?”

What? What could she possibly tell me about my dear, departed father that I don’t already know? That he was a controlling, narcissistic bastard? That everything was all about him? That she hated him? My mind races. Maybe she’s going to tell me he had affairs. Not that it would particularly surprise me, just give me a reason to hate him more. Now it’s my time to frown. Oh God. Perhaps he beat her up? Perhaps his bullying crossed the line into physical abuse.

“What is it, Mum?” She still hasn’t spoken, and now I’m worrying.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this. Your father…” she stops. “He wasn’t your father.”

And everything falls into place.

*   *   *

Of course he wasn’t my father. Didn’t I always know I was different? Didn’t I always dream that he would turn out not to be my father? Because I never felt close to him, never felt a connection, never understood how I, with my dark skin and wild (at times) personality, could have come from his loins.

Still, I am stunned. I sit and look at my mother as she starts to talk, to tell me about an artist called Brooks Mayhew, about one perfect summer in Nantucket, about how she knew, when I was born a month early, weighing eight pounds three ounces, much to my eternal shame, for what kind of a monster baby is born a month early weighing more than most babies at full term, how she took one look at my olive skin, my screwed-up features, and knew exactly who my father was, and that it wasn’t her husband.

“I don’t understand,” I keep saying, trying to process everything, trying to figure out how on earth you process, after twenty-nine years, that nothing you thought about yourself was true, that in finding out your father is not your father, it makes everything else a lie.

Even when that’s not a bad thing, even when you are grateful and relieved that your father wasn’t your father, you feel, immediately, that you are standing on shifting sands. That nothing in your life is real, and nothing in your life will ever be the same again.

“Which bit don’t you understand?” My mother is flush with reminiscing about a man I can see she loved. Which makes me know, instantly, how little she loved my father.

“Why didn’t you stay with him? Why didn’t you go back to Nantucket?”

Sadness crosses her face. “Things were different in those days. The shame of having an affair was something I couldn’t face, not to mention the shame of divorce. Back then it would have been a tremendous thing, and to walk out of a new marriage was just something I couldn’t face. You have to remember, my darling, I didn’t have supportive parents. I didn’t really have anyone, other than your father.”

“You had Aunt Judith.”

“True. And I thought so much about what would happen if I left and went back to Nantucket. I dreamed about it, often. I just couldn’t muster up the courage to leave. I was also”—she looks down, ashamed—“terrified of your father. Whenever I thought about leaving, about saying the actual words, I would see his face screwed up with rage. I imagined him taking everything, taking you, making sure I was left with nothing.”

“Which he would have done,” I agree. “Although he wouldn’t have wanted me if he knew I wasn’t his. He didn’t really want me anyway.”

“I’m sorry.” She reaches out a hand, and I see her eyes are filled with tears. “I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you a stable home, a family, with a father who was able to support us, to give you the life I wanted you to have. Brooks was from a wealthy family, but his trusts were tied up for years. He didn’t have anything, not then. And I didn’t even know if he wanted me, or the responsibility of a child. I doubt he would have done.”

I blink at her in horror. “You never told him?”

“I didn’t want to disrupt his life any more.”

“So when you left Nantucket you never spoke to him again? That was it?”

“He wrote to me, care of Aunt Judith, so your father never questioned the writing on the envelope. But I didn’t write back. I couldn’t. I had made my decision and I had to live with it. I thought I was doing the right thing for you.” She shakes her head. “God, I wish I’d left him years ago. The only thing that kept me there was fear.”

“You were doing the best you could,” I reassure her. “It wasn’t such a bad life. Who knows how it would have been had you made a different decision. We can’t look back.” Even as the words leave my mouth I am impressed with how wise they sound, how calm I sound, given the turmoil going on inside me.

I am alternately elated and devastated. It feels surreal to suddenly know that I have a father I have never met—quite possibly a whole other family. I may have brothers, sisters. I may suddenly get to have the life I have always wanted, one filled with siblings and noise and laughter.

But what if they don’t want me? What does this mean? What happens next? My mind is filled with thoughts, my body flooded with feelings that bounce back and forth, from excitement to fear, delight to trepidation. I am in another world, forcing myself back to reality only when I hear my mother say something.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I look at her.

“The drinking,” my mother says again, quietly.

I immediately jump on the defensive. “Really? Are we back to that? You’ve just given me the most important news of my life and now you’re going to start haranguing me about the drinking?”

“No. I meant
his
drinking. Brooks. It was another factor, another reason why I decided to leave, to come back to England. He drank so much. Every day. I worried about him, his future. Even when I fantasized about leaving and taking you to Nantucket, the memory of how much he drank always stopped me. I couldn’t rely on him, and it scared me.”

“Was he horrible when he drank?”

She smiles. “No. He was much the same. He used to say he had black Irish blood, which meant liquor was like mother’s milk to him. It didn’t matter how much he drank, he never got drunk.”

“Great,” I grumble. “I got his black Irish skin but not his ability to drink and stay sober. Thanks.” I raised my eyes in a sarcastic thanks to the gods who might be listening.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “You did get his liking to drink. I know you don’t want to talk about this, but I think there’s a genetic component to this. I believe what you said to me this morning on the phone, that you need help. And I believe that you do want to stop drinking, as you told me. I think you believe it too, just as you believe that today is the first day of your sobriety. But I also know you. And I think that at some time today, probably late afternoon, that resolve will be gone and you will tell yourself you will be able to have one small glass of wine, and then … then all bets will be off.” She leans forward and places a hand on top of mine, again, for I am doing what I always do when anyone points out one of my deficiencies—I have shut down, refusing to look at her, trying to spirit myself away to somewhere else entirely.

“Look at me, Cat,” she says. And I do.

“You can’t help it. This isn’t your fault. That’s what I’m trying to say. This is genetic, and it’s time for you to get help.”

“What about my father?” I change the subject, aware there is a flash of anger in my voice. “What am I supposed to do about him?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I think maybe I should write to him and tell him about you. I know you’ll want to get in touch with him, but I need to let him know first.”

“Really?” I hate myself for the sarcasm dripping from my voice. “You
think
?” I catch myself, take a deep breath, apologize. I can’t believe what she has just told me, and yet, of course I can believe.

And for the first time, everything in my life now seems to make sense.

Seven

My mother is entirely wrong. I’m on day four of not drinking, and while I can’t say it has been exactly easy, I’m doing it, and without help, at that.

I told all the girls at work, so they don’t encourage me, and this week I’ve opted out of the press launches, because while I’m delighted at this newfound willpower, I know it’s only going to work if I stay away from situations where I might be tempted.

More than anything, I can’t believe I’m not drinking given what I now know about my life. Drink has always been my first port of call when anything emotional happens in my life, and I’m being forced to feel these feelings, reconcile myself with the fact that I have a different father, without anything to numb me, to help me slip into a state of calm oblivion.

Actually, that’s not strictly true. Sam, at work, slipped me some Valium this week, which has helped enormously. I’m only supposed to take one a day, but they wear off so quickly I’ve found myself taking them every few hours, although yesterday he kept asking if I was okay, terrified, I think, that I had overdosed. Jackie eventually sent me home straight after lunch because apparently I was in a daze. Sam called all evening to make sure I was alive. Just for the record, I have always adored this good-looking, stylish gay man on the fashion desk, but now I think he may have become my official gay best friend.

But I’m doing so well that when all the girls announce they’re going to the wine bar across the street after work, I announce I’m going too.

“Are you sure?” says Poppy, who is my closest friend at work, peering out at me from behind her blond fringe. “You did ask us to help you not drink, and the temptation might be too strong.”

“I’m fine!” I say. “Bring on the Diet Coke!” I ignore Poppy’s worried look as I start to clear my desk.

I have worked here, at the
Daily Gazette,
for eight years. Even
I
am astounded at how I’ve managed to hold down the same job for eight long years, but perhaps it has something to do with the fact that the women I work with, the other feature writers on the women’s desk, have all become my greatest friends.

There are eight women on the desk, including the editor, Jackie. And I consider every one of these women to be my best friend, although Poppy is the best of the lot. I consider myself unbelievably lucky that I get to go to work every single day with my best friends.

When I started, in my early twenties, we were all single. God, the fun we had back then. Every night there was a press launch, or a party, or a premiere, and the whole desk would raid the fashion cupboard across the aisle for fabulous shoes, designer clothes, free samples of makeup, and the whole glittering troop of us would fortify ourselves with a couple of glasses of wine (or four) before piling into a cab, on expenses, and going off to a party.

I was renting a flat in Kensal Rise back then, which in hindsight was a bit of a dump, but it was the very first place of my own, with no flatmates, and I loved it. There was a hideous, garish, swirly carpet of red, orange, and yellow roses with leaves in a particularly hideous slash of green, which everyone thought hilarious. The girls at work ended up giving me a bag full of terrible joke sunglasses to keep on the hall table to help people deal with the pain of that carpet.