Mummy's Little Secret Read online

  ‘Have you always lived in London?’ I ask Jess politely, putting the bottle of water to my lips.

  Angus is the one who has to remind me that the leafy suburb of Northwood is captured within the boundary of Greater London, just about. There are no high-rise towers here, just a few bespoke businesses struggling to make ends meet. It’s not dissimilar to other towns we’ve lived in over the years, but at least we chose this one. I can only hope we have the chance to put down some roots, before we have to move on again.

  Jess raises the cup to her lips and blows gently on the tea to cool it. ‘I was born in Southampton,’ she says, and I’m surprised that she is being so open, as the suspicious look hasn’t left her eyes since I introduced myself.

  I don’t like the way she keeps glancing over at Daisy either. When Daisy ran off at the playground, I was relieved she hadn’t stumbled across some predator, but she was out of sight for two minutes, and God only knows what she might have shared in that time. I need to know what Daisy has told her. Daisy’s always been so trusting; doesn’t understand how cruel the world can be, nor how one slip to a perfect stranger can come back to haunt you later on. We’ve only been in Northwood for six weeks, and I don’t think Angus’s heart could take yet another move so soon.

  ‘I’ve never been to Southampton,’ I say, in an effort to keep the conversation neutral. I can’t just demand to know what Daisy has told her, but ultimately it might be easier, even if it does make me seem odd. If she knew my motivation, she would probably understand better, but that’s something I’m not prepared to share with another living soul. I did once, and I have no doubt that’s what led to him nearly finding us that time.

  ‘It’s a beautiful part of the world,’ Jess says, but there is a sadness to her tone, which she quickly pushes away. ‘What brings you to Northwood?’

  Ah, the dreaded question I was hoping to avoid. It’s perfectly natural for people to question why someone with such a broad Scots accent would move so far south, but it doesn’t make it any easier to lie to their faces.

  Opening the packet of shortbread biscuits, I snap one in half, breathing in the aroma. ‘These always remind me of home,’ I say, ignoring the question. ‘My grandmother was forever baking shortbread. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit the baking gene.’

  Daisy hasn’t said a word since we took our seats, and I’m relieved she’s not giving the game away. She is slumped in the white plastic chair, an open carton of juice on the table before her. Thankfully, Jess’s daughter Grace hasn’t stopped chattering to her, but from where I’m sitting it is obvious the conversation is one-sided. I’ve never seen a child look so unhappy at being bought juice and Jaffa Cakes. I wish I could somehow make her smile again; make her understand why we did what we did.

  ‘What did you say your husband does?’ I ask, keen to know more about the person I’m allowing to get close to our world.

  There is a look of confusion on Jess’s face as she answers, as if she isn’t quite sure what job her husband has. ‘He’s in stocks and shares.’

  That’s as vague an answer as I’ve ever heard, that’s for sure. Is it because she genuinely doesn’t know, or is it because she can’t remember what fictitious background she invented for him? You can never be sure who is what they say they are and who plays the person they think you want them to be.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I probe innocently. ‘How fascinating. Is he one of those you see in the movies, standing around staring at share prices, shouting and bidding?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Jess replies, but the uncertain expression remains.

  She shuffles uncomfortably in the chair, and if I didn’t know better I’d say she is close to tears. As a former nurse, you notice when people are trying to hide their discomfort, and when they’re putting it on for effect. Despite my doubts about Jess, I don’t think she is putting it on.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask. ‘I’ve got some ibuprofen in my handbag if that would help?’

  She shakes her head, but even that looks like a strain. ‘I’m fine,’ she says, and winces.

  Her phone beeps on the table, and she snatches it up and reads the message, disappointment flickering in her eyes. Bad news, I would assume, but she doesn’t appear ready to spill the beans.

  ‘I can’t get over how peaceful it is here,’ I offer, taking in the vista of the park behind her. ‘I always thought London was so urban, but it’s so green here.’

  Jess lowers the phone. ‘Many assume that London is just made up of skyscrapers and the usual tourist landmarks, but even in the heart of the city there are plenty of green parks and spots of beauty to counterbalance the grey pavements and roads.’

  Her cheeks flush as she realises how abrupt her response was, but I’m not so easily offended.

  She turns to look at Daisy again. ‘Are you looking forward to starting school, Daisy?’

  The wee girl glances at me before meeting her stare and nodding.

  ‘She’s so quiet compared to my chatterbox,’ Jess comments, turning back to look at me. ‘You must tell me your secret.’

  If only she knew the truth, she certainly wouldn’t be so breezy, sitting with us here. ‘She’s always been a quiet child, but takes everything in. Like a sponge. Don’t let her shyness fool you.’

  Jess is staring so intently at Daisy that I’m certain she must see through the veil of my deceit, but then she reaches for her phone and punches in a message to God only knows who or why. I suppose it’s a sign of the times that she offers no apology for this rudeness. Angus is always telling me that I need to accept it’s just the way things are, but why should I? Why can’t the younger generation keep their eyes off their phones for more than a few minutes at a time?

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, keeping my frustration in check.

  ‘My husband,’ she says almost too quickly. ‘Says he’s going to be late home. Again.’

  The sleeve of my waxed jacket crunches as I push it up and study the thin golden watch on my wrist. ‘We should probably be on our way too in a moment. Angus will be expecting his dinner on the table.’

  ‘Is Angus your husband?’ Jess asks, putting me on edge.

  I nod once, trying not to give too much away. ‘Aye. For thirty-four years he has been at my side.’ I stop suddenly, as I realise what I’ve said. There’s no way she won’t see my slip. I can almost hear the cogs turning in her head as she completes the mental arithmetic. She looks from me to Daisy, and that tells me she is trying to calculate how old I would have been to have given birth to Daisy. I’m relieved when her phone beeps again and use the distraction as an opportunity to tell Daisy to hurry up and finish her juice.

  Jess reads the message and responds once again, before lowering her phone.

  It’s so hard to know what she will read into our little exchange. While she’s taken an interest in us, she hasn’t bombarded us with questions. Just the right balance of curiosity, without prying. Should that make me suspicious? He only hires the best private detectives that money can buy to try and find us. Is that what she is? Was our meeting in the playground by chance, or engineered? One thing’s for certain, until I know more, I need to keep an eye on her. What is it they say about keeping friends close, but enemies closer?

  ‘It’s lovely how the two of them are getting on,’ I say, eager to cover for my earlier slip. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the week? I would be happy to have Grace over to play. Would free up some time for you, no?’

  If she is as genuine as she portrays, then it can’t be easy to look after such a bundle of energy, given the obvious restrictions a wheelchair would bring.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ she offers, fidgeting again.

  Scrawling the number of the latest phone Angus has given me onto a napkin, I slide it across the table to her. ‘I’ll leave you to decide.’ The waxed coat scrunches as I stand and motion to Daisy to do the same. ‘It was nice to have met you, Grace,’ I say, and it really was. If Daisy is to settle into her new
school, having a friend like Grace will certainly make it easier. ‘Are you going to say goodbye, Daisy?’

  She zips up her coat, and fixes Grace with a grateful look. ‘Bye.’

  Something changes in Jess’s expression, and for the life of me I don’t know what could have caused it. Leading Daisy away, I can’t help but worry that this simple exchange has set us on a path from which there is no return. All I know is that I cannot wait to get Daisy home and away from prying eyes. He is out there somewhere searching for us, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow him to get as close as he did before.

  Chapter Three

  Before – Jess

  The curtains explode in a shower of light, as Charlie’s car pulls onto the driveway. The shadows return a moment later, and I hear keys rattling in the front door. I am stretched out on the sofa, television remote in my hand, but I’m not really watching what’s on the screen. It is late, and I am tired, but it took all my energy to shift from the wheelchair onto the sofa and I simply don’t think I will manage to get back into the chair unaided. Even if I do, there’s no way I will be able to get myself into bed.

  The doctor who diagnosed the injury didn’t tell me just how physically draining movement would be. He explained that I would ache, that they would need to monitor my psychological reaction to the change, and that my sexual appetite might diminish.

  The truth is, unless you spend time confined in a wheelchair, you can never really appreciate the impact it will have on every aspect of your life. I don’t mind admitting I’d never really considered just how difficult life becomes because of the chair. Wait, no, that’s not fair. It isn’t the chair’s fault that I cannot easily get in and out of buildings, and it isn’t the chair’s fault that not enough businesses truly consider less-abled members of the public. Even venues that stress they are wheelchair-accessible don’t all consider just how steep some of their ramps are.

  My lower back is aching from sitting still for too long at the park. That was something the surgeon had warned me about when he’d broken the news I might never walk again.

  ‘It’s important to exercise,’ he’d insisted. ‘The lure to just stay in the wheelchair all day is one you should avoid. Swimming is a good way to keep fit.’

  It’s like that was the only part of the stern talk Charlie had heard. Bless him, I know he means well, focusing on the positive, but for me there is no silver lining. It’s not like I’m choosing to sit in the wheelchair, but without it I’m restricted to dragging myself across the floor with just my hands and arms for leverage.

  Charlie has said we’ll buy a new chair when we can afford to. He thinks that a battery-powered one will make all the difference, but I’m not sure he understands that it won’t solve all of our problems. Poor Charlie, I sometimes forget how hard this change has been on him too. He tries his best, I know he does, but money isn’t going to solve my issue.

  Not this time.

  For now, my father’s old chair will have to suffice. I suppose I should be grateful that it’s only my legs I’ve lost the use of. I could be worse off.

  My mind keeps wandering back to that encounter at the park. I know without doubt that there is more to Daisy than I dared realise. Although it was only four little words, I have no doubt that Daisy’s accent isn’t Scottish, but how can that be when Morag’s accent is so broad? But that’s not the only thing that’s troubling me. Daisy’s cheeks were puffy, as if she stores food in them like a squirrel. They were covered in freckles, as was her nose, but her hair was so dark, in comparison to the rouge hues of Morag’s. I have no doubt that Morag colours her hair, but cannot picture her ever having hair as dark as Daisy’s. Her face is as round as a ball, yet Morag’s is long and more oval.

  I appreciate that not all children are the spitting image of their parents – Grace has the perfect balance of Charlie’s and my features – but I wouldn’t have expected Daisy to look so different to Morag if they are indeed mother and daughter. It’s not just the lack of resemblance though. Morag was definitely evasive when I asked questions about her background, and yet she was keen to know more about me and Charlie. And then there was that suggestion that I bring Grace over for a playdate. Was it simply a kind gesture, or are her motives far more sinister? I already know what Charlie will say if I tell him what I’m thinking. He’ll tell me I’m being paranoid, that I need to take control of my wandering imagination and stop painting every gesture in darkness.

  Morag’s evasiveness is still gnawing at my mind like a rat with a nut. Why wouldn’t she tell me what had brought them to Northwood? When we first bought the house, it was convenient for Charlie to catch the Tube into the city. But things have changed. It’s now become more fashionable to live on the edge of the boundary and commute. The town is no longer how I remember it, and so much busier. More people, more cars, and yet I’ve never felt so isolated.

  Charlie looks surprised to find me still up. He leans his briefcase against the shoe rack behind the front door. ‘I’m sorry,’ is all he mutters, before a pained expression sweeps across that smooth forehead of his.

  To look at him, you’d never know Charlie was two years older than me, nor that he is nearing thirty-five. He’s always been blessed with youthful features, albeit prior to his eighteenth birthday he’d viewed it as a curse. Even when we’d started dating, he was twenty-four but would always be asked for identification when buying alcohol or trying to gain entry to a nightclub. It used to make me giggle, and I always used to tell him he’d be grateful for that gene one day.

  ‘Your dinner’s in the oven,’ I tell him, ‘but it’s probably cold.’

  I don’t mean to sound so bitter, but I can’t help feeling envious that he’s been out of this house all day. Save for the trip to the park with Grace, I’ve been a prisoner, as I am most days. It isn’t that I don’t want to go out, but it saps my energy so quickly. The doctor said things would improve over time, but I don’t feel like I’ve made any progress in the six months since I was discharged.

  ‘How was your day?’ he asks, but it’s difficult to gauge if he really wants to know, or whether he’s just being polite. I used to be able to read his thoughts so well, but things have been different since the diagnosis, and our losing Luke.

  Whenever I ask Charlie about his day job, I quickly lose interest. I know that makes me sound like a cow, but he uses so much jargon that I simply don’t understand. From what I’ve managed to deduce he does something involving investing for bigger companies and clients, but I might be completely off track. What I do know is it gets the best part of him each day. He’s usually gone by the time I wake up, and when he does eventually get home, he’s too tired to do anything but slouch in front of the television and fall asleep.

  I know it isn’t Charlie’s fault, and, if anything, I am the reason he is having to work so hard. Since the surgery, I haven’t been in any position to work. It’s hard enough getting through the days, but try telling the bank and utility companies that our lives have been flipped off course. Bills have to be paid regardless of the tragedy and anxiety we are suffering. I would choose to have Charlie around more often rather than a battery-powered wheelchair. I sometimes worry that Grace will forget what he looks like.

  I silently admonish myself for the thought, and remind myself that Charlie is a wonderful father. He makes an effort to fix her breakfast at the weekends, and reads to her every Saturday and Sunday night. I don’t get up to Grace’s room as much as I’d like. Since the surgery, I have been sleeping in what was our spare room downstairs. Charlie sleeps down there with me most nights, unless he returns late and I’m already in bed. On those occasions, he will sleep upstairs so as not to disturb me. I know I’m lucky to have him, and that lesser men would have abandoned me after what happened. He remains my rock.

  My breath catches, as I feel the phantom kick of Luke’s feet in my womb. It should be impossible to feel anything down there. I no longer know when my bowels are moving, yet every now and again I am certai
n I feel Luke move within me. The gynaecologist did say women who go full-term can sometimes feel phantom movement, like an echo – a reminder that he was growing inside of me. I can’t help but feel that his soul – his spirit, his essence – didn’t leave when they extracted him from me. I know it’s crazy, but I still feel him there, and it brings joy and sorrow knowing he is with me, but not with me.

  People react differently to me since the diagnosis. It’s like my inability to walk has made me a spectacle. You get the strangers in the street who will divert their gaze to anywhere but where I am pushing my wheels. And then there are the people who seem to assume that because I can’t walk, I’m not able to think for myself either. They mean well, sure, but I’ve lost count of the number of strangers who’ve offered to push me home, even though they don’t know me, or where I live. Thankfully, there is a third, rarer breed of people who smile politely, but don’t make any effort to treat me differently. Believe it or not, these are my favourite type of people. I don’t want to be thought of as different. Just because I am restricted to the wheelchair, it doesn’t mean I want to be defined by it.

  ‘Do you want me to microwave your dinner?’ I ask as Charlie removes his tie and rolls it up. Always so neat and tidy is my Charlie.

  His brow furrows uncertainly. ‘Thanks, but Doug bought pizza so we could go over the pitch again, and again.’

  I bite my tongue to keep myself from showing my annoyance at this last statement. He hasn’t sent a message since the one I received at the coffee stand. Okay, his dinner is just a ready meal I put in the oven, but if he’d told me he was eating pizza I wouldn’t have wasted the meal.

  So typical of Doug – Charlie’s boss – to think buying them all takeaway pizza makes up for keeping them working unsociable hours. I’ve met Doug twice, and answered the phone to him more than a dozen times. Not a particularly sociable person from what I can determine, certainly never shown any kind of interest in me. Even after I was discharged from hospital, and I next answered his call, he didn’t even ask how I was coping, just demanded to speak to Charlie.