Secrets

‘Spot on, Tess, spot on. The vista isn't the same. I mean, for purists, it's more natural today than it was for those hundred and five years. But I don't know – for me, that bridge enhanced this landscape aesthetically, never mind practically.’

They looked up the valley quietly. Seagulls bickered in a noisy scatter overhead. The sea breeze, south-easterly and quite strong, pestered one side of their faces, the sun the other. They had to squint but they stood there a while longer, still and thoughtful. Joe didn't tell Tess that, on his tenth birthday, building bridges became not just his chosen career but also a metaphor to serve as a life lesson. He didn't tell her this, just then, because he'd have to explain that the drive for it came from his parents’ disintegrating marriage. The one chasm, the only hostile space, the single seemingly untraversable rift that he'd been unable to bridge. The distance between them was never to be spanned.

And just then, Tess didn't tell Joe that she detected both strength and sadness in his story. That his silent thoughts had a heaviness that confronted her. But she did tell herself that she wanted to slip her hand into his. But then she told herself off for thinking such thoughts. And pushed her hands deep into her pockets.

Joe is going to London tomorrow. The day at the Ha'penny Bridge was two days ago. In the intervening time, he and Tess have walked and talked, eaten together, laughed a lot and spent yesterday evening reading quietly in the drawing room before watching News at Ten in the sitting room. She does still sometimes wonder whether she should ask permission. And he does recall the structure he'd imposed on previous house-sitters. He still hasn't given her the pack. But he has to concede, the house seems to have shown that it works well for the two of them.

It is now mid-morning and Joe has finally emerged from his study and is pottering in the kitchen, taking a break from work. He sees Tess is outside, pegging out washing. Emmeline and Wolf are lolling about in the garden. It is surprisingly balmy today, as if a switch has turned off the chill of earlier in the week until next winter. April is two days away; spring is within easy reach now.

He studies the scene in the garden. It is less a Thomas Hardy novel and more an Edward Hopper painting. Tess, with her back towards him, wearing a faded tea-dress and woollen cardigan with the sleeves pushed up, a pair of old cream trainers. The breeze furling the washing around her forearms and causing the skirt to cling to her bare legs, licking at the fronds and curls of her hair which have escaped her scratchy pony-tail. Every now and then she turns her face a little as she stoops to pick up the next item or to check on Emmeline. And it is then that the sun glances off her skin and spins silken skeins from her hair. Joe wants to watch but he doesn't want to be seen and it confuses him that the scene is so compelling. He goes upstairs to his bedroom to pack for London but finds himself drawn to the window, peering down onto the garden, again transfixed by the sight of her sorting socks.

And look, my boxers. I didn't know she'd done my washing.

He is concerned, bemused, how a picture of such dull domesticity can be arousing, but this is the undeniable effect on him. Perhaps it is the feminine presence. Perhaps it is because at this angle, the sunlight has made her dress see-through. Maybe it is just because he likes her, he has enjoyed her company these last few days; it has been simple and uncomplicated yet entertaining and energizing too. And there's that frisson – how she can be stroppy and how he winds her up, that she can make him snappish and curt. It doesn't make him dislike her, far from it, but it unnerves him that he should feel eager to seek peace soon after. He tells himself, London, you prat, London. So he goes back to his packing.

But before he returns downstairs, he hovers on the landing and then goes up a flight to Tess's room. He's not really sure why. She's outside – he has only to go to a window to watch her, unseen. But he doesn't want to see her, he wants to sense her. That's why he's standing at her doorway.

There's not much to see: a pair of jeans on the floor. Socks in a scrunch. And a pair of plain black knickers kicked off nearby. Nathalie accosts his mind's eye; resplendent in her carefully selected and unfathomably expensive lingerie. Gold mesh and miniscule. Joe steps further into the room and picks up her knickers from the floor. Black cotton. He holds them to his nose, inhaling deeply while calling himself a crazy, dirty bastard. But still he goes to his bathroom to masturbate urgently. It isn't thoughts of Nathalie that have excited this state in the middle of a nondescript morning. He didn't think back to all that sex he'd had the week before. Rather, it was the sight of Tess this morning, in a shabby dress and old cardi. It's the proximity of her right now, just out there in the garden. The girl with the plain cotton knickers. And so, it isn't images of Nathalie that he now wanks to, but the still prevalent sense and scents of Tess. He comes and it's exquisite.

He opens his eyes after a moment and stares at the tessellation of tiles. Alone in a bathroom. He feels a little hollow. Tess's voice drifts up from the garden. She's rabbiting on at Wolf and laughing. She's sewn herself into the fabric of his life in Saltburn and yet for years now, he's felt no emotional anchor here – just the practicality of the house. He cleans himself up and goes back downstairs. He feels perplexed and shuts himself in his study where the complexity of calibrations for a forthcoming pitch offers him a welcome distraction.

‘May I use the phone?’

Tess knocked on the study door later that afternoon and called her request through. Joe's been in there all day, she hasn't seen him at all.

‘Sure.’

‘Oh – and would you like me to rustle up some supper later?’

After a pause. ‘Don't worry about me.’

Tess's turn to pause, laying her forehead gently against the door. ‘I'm not worried about you,’ she said quietly. ‘I'll be cooking for myself anyway. It's no trouble.’

A sigh from inside. ‘OK.’

‘Don't let me twist your arm!’ she muttered and stomped off.

‘Look – sorry. Fine – I'd love some food.’

‘OK. And it's OK to use the phone?’

‘Yes. I told you – it's fine.’

That he should sound irritated irked Tess but her desire to spend time with him is stronger. He's just hard at work, she told herself, building bridges.

‘Hullo, Claire? It's your long-lost sister… I'm fine – how are you? How are the kids? Good. Good… I'm in Saltburn – in the North-East… Me – on holiday? Don't be daft!… I've left London – for good, hopefully …A few weeks ago… Heard from Mum? Dad? My mobile doesn't work – shall I give you this number, you know, just for emergencies? No… No …Yes …Pretty shit, really… No – that's not why I've phoned… Pardon? No, I haven't heard from him – not for months, not since Em's birthday… Don't say that. You know what he's like. Anyway, I think he's still in the States. No – no, he hasn't. I didn't ask again, not after the last time… He hasn't got any money, you know that, Claire. Can we change the subject, please? I'm working here in Saltburn… No, not that – not any more. I'm doing Property Management …Well, I'm house-sitting… No, it's more than that – actually I'm looking after a bridge builder and his home.’

She was relieved to have made the call, which wasn't to say that she'd enjoyed it in the slightest. It would take her an hour or so to recover and feel better about herself. But she was used to that. She simply couldn't afford not to touch base with her sister every now and then.

The only phone in the entire house is the one in the main entrance hall. And Joe found himself helpless not to hover at his study door and eavesdrop. And afterwards, he found it impossible to work but he stayed in his study and thought about things until Tess called him for supper.

He looked at his plate heaped high with locally caught fish, home-made chips, peas and carrots. On the table a new bottle of ketchup, flakes of sea salt in one of the little dishes from Hong Kong he'd forgotten he had. White wine in one glass and water in another. He glanced across at Tess. She'd been quite right to tell her sister how she was looking after him and his home. Quietly, he considered it a shame he had to go tomorrow, to be away quite so often. But then he remembered this morning, when she was hanging out washing. He didn't want to think about it but he knew he didn't want to forget it either. It was confusing. Perhaps it was good that he was leaving tomorrow.

‘So, Tess,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘what'll you get up to when I'm gone again?’

She thought about it. ‘With your say-so, I'd like to start on the sitting room – the TV room. And we really could make better use of the boot store. It is a room, you know.’

‘We?’

Tess reddened a little. ‘There's good paint you can buy now – it's scrubbable,’ she hurried. ‘It would be perfect. Will the Everything Shop sell it, do you think? Could I put it on your tab?’

Joe nodded. ‘No doubt they have a pot or two at the back somewhere, under the jigsaw puzzles, next to the ericaceous plant food, behind the home-brewery kit.’

Tess laughed. ‘Opposite the cotton reels and just across from the mousetraps?’

‘Or I can bring you some back,’ Joe said. ‘I may not stay in London that long – I may come back before heading off to France.’

He'd only just thought of this.

They caught each other's glance and looked away.

‘Or I may go and visit friends in Kent,’ he said with a nonchalant tap at the base of the ketchup bottle. ‘Chislehurst.’

‘Cool,’ Tess said breezily, as if it was no concern of hers where he went, when.

‘More wine?’

‘Please.’

Joe held the wine bottle aloft, appearing to scrutinize the label as if he harboured some concern over the vintage or the vineyard. He wasn't. But he needed a moment.

‘Pass your glass, Tess, and call me a nosy old sod and you don't have to answer, but Emmeline's dad? I mean, I was wondering – you know – about him. Whether he'll be coming – here – to visit, perhaps?’

He said it all so quickly, so conversationally whilst he poured wine, that however intrusive the question might have been, it didn't come across as such and Tess found herself answering. She hadn't noticed the two small lines that remained between Joe's brows; punctuation marks of discomfort that belied the light tone of his voice.

‘He won't be coming up to Saltburn. You see – well, you'll have guessed we're not together. Actually, he doesn't really visit much.’

‘Were you together for long?’

Tess traced her finger around the rim of the glass as if to elicit sound. Her voice, when it came, had the volume on low. ‘For about six weeks,’ she said. Then she cleared her throat, smiled a little meekly and spoke up. ‘We were together for about six weeks. And then he went travelling. Which was when I found out I was pregnant. It's all a bit of a cliché.’

The food was finished but Joe dabbed at the smear of ketchup on his plate and then sucked his finger thoughtfully.

‘He's a musician,’ Tess continued though Joe hadn't asked. In fact, all he was going to ask was whether she wanted a cup of tea. He thought she might want a change of subject; he was surprised that she didn't.

‘Or at least he likes to say he's a musician, though he never seems to play much more than themes and variations on “House of the Rising Sun”. The problem is, he's very handsome. Well, it's a problem for everyone else, you see. He's stunningly good-looking, really – luckily Em's inherited his looks. But he's one of those free spirits. Born in the wrong generation, you could say. The Woodstock era would have been so much more his thing.’

‘Where is he based?’ Joe asked though he'd eavesdropped about the States earlier from Tess's phone call. He'd prefer facts over these superlatives of the bloke's beauty.