The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets Read online

  When I finish writing this, I am shaking and I feel sick. The facts remain unpalatable, even so many years later. Still, I believe I am making progress. For example, earlier I was convinced that my downfall was a result of excessive self-absorption. Now, reading through what I have written, I realise that it was confiding inappropriately in the wrong person that ruined me. I should not have told Ian McEwan about my personal problems; I should have allowed him to go ahead and do his reading, as planned. I resolve not to try again to tell Ian Prudhoe my secret. It’s in the book; that’s good enough for the time being.

  I close my notebook and walk down to the main road, where I catch a bus to Harrow Square. A few minutes later I am knocking on the door of number six. Ian Prudhoe opens it, wearing a green tracksuit top and grey sweatpants. It is three fifteen in the afternoon. He obviously doesn’t have a job either.

  ‘Fuck! Not you again,’ he says.

  ‘I’m editing a book,’ I tell him. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to be in it, to write something for it.’

  His eyes narrow, as if he is either suspicious or concentrating really hard. ‘A book? What, a real book? Will it be in shops and shit?’

  ‘Of course. It’s going to be a bestseller. It’ll be in service stations and airports and supermarkets all over the country. It’ll be one of the three books in the buffet-shop cars on Virgin trains.’

  Ian looks dissatisfied. ‘But what about bookshops?’

  ‘Yes, there too. But all the most successful books these days are in service stations and supermarkets. That’s more important than bookshops.’

  ‘So, are you, like, a writer?’

  ‘No. I’m an editor.’

  ‘Will I get any money?’

  I don’t want to lie to him, so I say, ‘I can’t be specific at this point about how much money the book’ll make. I’m hoping lots. But I promise you that, whatever I make from it, you can have fifty per cent.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Half. I’ll give you half the money.’

  ‘Cool,’ he says. His thick, bumpy lips form a grin.

  I smile. There will be plenty of time later for me to tell him my name, and that I want him to write the unabridged story of his liaison with M8. ‘How about a drink?’ I say.

  ‘Are you buying?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We set off to the pub together. ‘How do you feel about festival appearances?’ I ask him.

  ‘Hey?’

  I can see it now: Ian and me, on stage at the Maltings, talking about how we met, the unusual start to our friendship. They don’t know it yet, those dullards who sacked me, but I am on my way back.

  Twelve Noon

  IT WAS AS IF THE SIGN KNEW MORE THAN I DID. I STARED IN disbelief, wondering how I could have failed to notice it before. It was square, blue with white writing, attached to a slim grey pole that disappeared into the pavement in a raised hill of concrete.

  If I’d spotted it I would have parked elsewhere. There was a single yellow line across the street. Ron’s disabled badge was stuck to the windscreen of our car, but I was alone, unsure of the rules, and queasy with nerves after my first attempt at driving in nearly ten years.

  I read the words again. ‘Maximum stay 2 hours. No return within 2 hours.’ I looked at my watch. Half past ten. I had set off from home at nine thirty, and the drive, which as a passenger I’d done many times, took about half an hour, so I must have parked at ten o’clock. Morrison’s was less busy than usual, and I’d been so distracted that I’d managed to buy only two things: a jar of coffee and a packet of spaghetti. These I succeeded in obtaining only because they were the items Ron had reminded me about. I couldn’t make any decisions: lager or wine, chips or potatoes. I tried to plan the week’s meals in my mind, but my head reeled with thoughts of the other task I had set myself for this morning, the one I still hadn’t done and might never do. Yet it was so important to me that I’d refused Ron’s offer of a lift, in spite of my phobia. As recently as half past nine this morning, I had intended to honour the deal I had made.

  I decided that, instead of allowing the sign in its entirety to baffle and intimidate me, I would break it down into its two parts and consider each one separately. This calmed me somewhat. The first restriction – ‘Maximum stay 2 hours’ – presented no problem. It was the second limitation that bothered me: ‘No return within 2 hours’. Taken together, the sentences were confusing. If I was not allowed to return to my car for two hours, that meant that I still had an hour and a half to use up. But if I also wasn’t allowed to park for longer than two hours, then surely the sign as a whole meant to say that I must come back at precisely twelve noon.

  I was an English teacher before I retired, and I imagined what I would say to the grey pole with the blue square head if it were one of my pupils: ‘If “You may park here for exactly two hours, no more and no less” is what you mean, why not say so?’ I hid behind this surreal fantasy for a few seconds. If the sign had been merely inefficient, I would not have been trembling on the pavement, unable to take a step in any direction.

  ‘No return within 2 hours.’ I tried not to leap to any sinister conclusions, but I could see no sense in this instruction. What if all one had to do was nip into Boots? Surely the sooner each space was available for another driver’s use, the better. I shivered, feeling my skin prickle. The second prohibition made sense only in one context: if you were me, in my present predicament, with my particular dilemma.

  The sign knew. It stood there, impassive on its one cylindrical leg, for me.

  I hovered outside Greggs bakery, with my Morrisons carrier bag in one hand and my handbag in the other. I forced myself to focus on my physical surroundings, to combat the unsettling sense I had that I was the only real component in an unreal scene, a breathing colour figure pasted on to a still, monochrome backdrop. Blood drummed in my ears. I tried to disregard it and listen outside myself, to the humming of car engines, the chinging of the till through the open door of the bakery, carefree conversations that hurtled towards me then left me, as suddenly, standing in their wakes. Fine rain settled on my face like mist. The sky was greying at the edges, darkening the morning. I tried not to take this as an omen of what might happen to me if I disobeyed.

  For it seemed indisputable that the sign was ordering me to keep my promise. I had exactly an hour and a half, ample time. All I had to do was go to the Halifax, withdraw two thousand pounds and donate it to a charity. Simple. Why, then, were complications already tugging at the corners of my mind? I had never taken out so much money before. I had never had so much. The two thousand pounds was the result of six years of saving. Would notice be required for such a large amount? Would the people in the Halifax let me have cash or would it have to be a cheque? If the latter, I would need to decide upon a charity in advance, unless I asked them to leave the top line blank, which I wasn’t keen to do. The staff would be bound to eye me suspiciously: Two grand and she doesn’t even know who it’s for?

  My heart began to beat higher and faster as I realised that getting my hands on the money, in whatever form, was only the first challenge. What ought I to do with it then? Could I walk into one of the charity shops in town and hand it over without explanation? I doubted it; I was too polite to refuse to answer a reasonable question. I was also a hopeless liar. A fluttering sensation in my throat interfered with my breathing. I needed to sit down, even more so when it occurred to me that I ought not necessarily to restrict my choice of charity to those that had shops in town. In order to do justice to my promise, my decision had not to be based solely – or even at all – on my convenience.

  It was all becoming too difficult. Waves of panic threatened to force all rational thought out of my mind. I dropped my handbag and my shopping on the pavement. This was the same feeling I had when I drove, the one I’d struggled with all the way into town. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, love?’ Ron had asked. ‘I’m happy to take you in. It’s no trouble.’ Ron’s kindness made my task so mu
ch harder. I would have to explain to him why the holiday that we had been planning for so long was now out of the question. That I knew he would forgive me made it worse, not better.

  With a shaking hand, I reached for my car keys, thinking that if I could only sit down for a few moments, I might regain my composure. I was about to press the unlock button when it occurred to me that this could constitute returning to my car within two hours. Certainly sitting in it might. The immobile sign stared at me, each of its white letters an eye. Here, on the pavement, what if I was too close already? Would a traffic warden believe that I meant no harm, that I was only standing here in a sort of desperate paralysis?

  It must be because these spaces were so few, so precious, I deduced. Evidently the council wanted to ensure they were only used by those whose business in town was substantial, taxing, and would take longer. The most deserving.

  If I kept my promise to myself and gave the two thousand pounds to charity, that category would include me. I picked up my handbag and shopping and stumbled along the road, stopping when I reached a small, empty café called Mario’s. I didn’t want to be near people.

  I ordered a pot of tea and sat at a red, Formica-topped table with a scratched surface, counting in my head. When did I become so frightened of everything? It was difficult to pin down a particular moment; it had been gradual, like my aversion to driving. I would have found it easier to understand if, the day after Katie walked out, I had woken up terrified, doubtful of my ability to control either myself or the car. But it didn’t happen that way. My problems began several months after I last saw Katie. One day, when I was driving to work, I was careless and mounted the kerb. The following week I lost a friend’s birthday present. It was around this time that I began to doubt my ability to cope. Ron started to have to make allowances for me, or ‘take special care’ of me, as he put it. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘You’ve looked after me all these years.’

  He must have meant financially. His disability was not one that required physical care. Ron suffered from tinnitus. He had worked in a factory until his condition made it impossible. He hadn’t had a job for fifteen years. I was the one who took care of our material needs. Not for long. Guilt made me wince. Yet a far worse guilt awaited me if I left the two thousand pounds in our holiday fund.

  A young snub-nosed waitress brought over my tea. I pulled a notebook and pen out of my handbag, wrote ‘Possible Charities’ at the top of a blank page and underlined it. I must have looked intelligent and organised. At work, I had had a reputation for exceptional efficiency. Colleagues referred to me as ‘a stickler’. Pupils did the assignments I set before those set by other teachers, knowing who would give them the sharpest telling-off if the work wasn’t done. I reminded myself of this now, to bolster my confidence.

  Choosing a charity was harder than I’d anticipated. The act of bestowing the money had to be utterly unselfish, with no benefit to me, not even a potential future benefit. This, I reasoned, would make my task even more agonising. Cancer Research was ruled out because I might one day be diagnosed with cancer, and, as Ron and I would soon be pensioners, Age Concern was a non-starter. I wrote ‘NSPCC’, then crossed it out when it occurred to me that Katie was bound to have children one day. And if she stayed with that awful man…

  My heart, shrivelled from years of anguish, shrank still further. I would probably never see Katie’s children. I could live with that, in the way that people learned to live with crumbling hip joints and debilitating migraines. What was intolerable was the thought that my unknown but nonetheless beloved grandchildren would grow up in the house of Toby Rollinson.

  ‘Why don’t you like him, Mum?’ Katie had asked me, on what I now called the worst day of my life. It was the nineteenth of January, 1994. Every nineteenth of January since had been a torture to live through. I often wondered why anniversaries were so dreadful. It wasn’t as if one avoided the pain for the rest of the year; it was there all the time. ‘If you’re worried about me not concentrating on my university work…’

  ‘It isn’t that,’ I said.

  ‘So it is something?’ She knew she’d trapped me; I used language with more precision than most.

  ‘Katie, I’m worried. You are…taking precautions?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘No, I mean…what contraception are you using? It’s not pregnancy I’m worried about.’

  She frowned. ‘Oh. Well, you don’t need to worry. We use condoms. And Toby hasn’t got AIDS, if that’s what you mean.’ It was at this point that she had begun to sound indignant.

  ‘I’m sure he hasn’t,’ I said quickly. Katie and I had always got on so well. I wanted to hear her usual happy voice again, but now that I had started I knew I had to continue. Keeping it from her wasn’t an option. Even Ron agreed, and he hated discord. He even worried about offending people he disliked, an attitude I had never been able to understand. ‘But it isn’t only AIDS you need to think about. There’s herpes, chlamydia…’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘I’m sorry. Katie, there’s something I have to tell you. About Toby. You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘What? Tell me.’ She wanted it over with quickly. So did I.

  ‘He has sex with prostitutes. Young ones.’ I could have said children.

  Katie’s face paled.

  ‘I’ve known for five days. It’s taken me this long to think it through. I needed to be absolutely sure that—’

  ‘You’re lying!’ She had found her voice, a shrill wail. ‘You’ve always hated him!’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Though I’d had my reservations. The presents he bought Katie were never ordinary nice things. Without exception, they were brilliant ideas that made people comment on Toby’s cleverness. A reproduction of the Mona Lisa, but with Katie’s face. ‘How did you do it, Toby?’ everybody asked.

  ‘One of the girls he… pays is a pupil of mine. She saw the photo of you in his wallet when he opened it. She’d seen you with me in town and knew you were my daughter.’

  ‘She’s lying! Maybe she knows Toby from somewhere else. Maybe she’s obsessed with him and she’s trying to wreck our relationship…’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. It was very difficult for her to tell me. She made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone. Apart from you, and she said I had to keep her name a secret. She’s one of my cleverest girls, Katie. She likes me.’

  Lindsay Carter. Very bright and very poor. I sipped my tea, saying her name inside my head. I had kept my word and told noone. I’d lied to Katie slightly. Lindsay had told me it was her friend who slept with men for money, but I’d known instantly that it was her.

  After Katie stormed out, I was calm. I washed the dishes, expecting her to be back as soon as she’d confronted Toby and found out I was right. I should have anticipated no such thing. How complacent must I have been? That day was the last time I saw her.

  She ignored all my pleas, even the letter in which I wrote that I had been mistaken and I was sorry, so sorry. I would have said anything. I went, several times, to the house she shared with three other students, but she refused to see me. Obsessively, as if I were in court in my own mind, I interrogated myself about how this could happen to a bond as strong as ours. When I thought back over the history of our relationship, I found no precedent, no tensions beneath the surface. We were about as close as a mother and daughter could be. Years later, I read about her engagement to Toby in the Daily Telegraph. His parents were just the sort who would waste money on that sort of nonsense.

  Having crossed out ‘NSPCC’, I was at a loss. Amnesty International was a worthy organisation, but I couldn’t be absolutely certain that I would never need its help. What if I were kidnapped by terrorists? One read about such things more and more these days. It was highly unlikely, I knew, but not impossible. Eventually I settled on the RSPCA. I had no pets and did not particularly like animals. To have to take my precious money and give it to an organisation that would spend it on dogs
and rabbits would make me want to do someone an injury. It was ideal.

  I paid for my tea and hurried to the Halifax before I lost what little nerve I’d mustered. When I reached the counter, I asked for a cheque for two thousand pounds to be made out to the RSPCA. I was astonished when the man behind the window said, ‘RSPCA? Not time to book the holiday, then? Or is it already paid for?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m Terry, remember? Ron and I play bridge together.’

  ‘Oh…of course.’ My fingers gripped the desk. I would have to tell Ron straight away; otherwise this man might. I would have to tell him straight away, because my nerves would not permit me to keep it from him.

  ‘Ron showed me the brochure. I’ve never stayed in a five-star hotel.’ His voice was full of admiration.

  ‘Neither have we.’

  ‘Ron says it’s got three swimming pools.’

  ‘Yes. I’m actually in, er…’ I looked at my watch. I couldn’t bear to hear the details of the treat we would have to forego. Furious with myself for the ridiculous bargain I’d made and now had to honour, I allowed a voice in my head to say, It’s not worth it. Then I feared I would be struck down. What sort of mother would have such a thought, even fleetingly? I didn’t mean it, of course, but Terry’s musings on the Grand Hôtel des Iles Borromes forced me to remember all those weeks in cold caravans, on sagging mattresses.

  I was probably rude to him in my desperation to escape. Once I had the cheque, I went straight to the phone box outside the library and rang directory enquiries. Another call and I had the RSPCA’s address. Before I had time to change my mind, I marched to the post office like a robot, where I bought an envelope and a stamp and did what was necessary.