Freya North 3-Book Collection: Secrets, Chances, Rumours

‘You're an item, aren't you? Mary says you're Joe's girl.’

Tess knew she had a single chance, before confirming or denying this. ‘And Kate?’

‘Kate?’

‘Mary's mixing me up with Kate today.’

‘Don't worry about that, pet – she called me Hilary yesterday, if that helps.’ Only it didn't help Tess who wanted to know about Kate.

‘I'm just the housekeeper. Sitter.’

The women had not looked at each other during this exchange. But they did so now. And Laura gave Tess a canny smile, accompanied by a snort which said, who are you trying to kid, hen? And Tess gave a fleeting widening of her eyes which said, don't! you're making me blush!

‘You can start off as one thing and end as another,’ Laura said, ‘like our Aunt Win.’

Tess wondered what she meant but a slow wink from Laura suggested it was enough.

‘And Kate?’ Tess tried again. It sounded contrived, but at least it was out.

Only Mary had finished her ice cream. ‘That was lovely, thank you, Tess.’

Much as Tess still wanted to hear about Kate, it was nicer to hear Mary using her own name again. Tess decided to leave it. She remembered how her grandmother had warned against prying. It's like sunbathing, she used to say – easy enough not to know when you've had enough and suddenly you're burnt.

So, together with Laura, she linked arms with Mary and, three abreast with the pushchair zigzagging, they monopolized the pavement all the way back to Swallows.

‘Come by soon,’ Laura said.

‘I will,’ said Tess. She turned to Mary. ‘See you soon, Mary.’

‘Not if I see you first, Kate.’

This time, Tess was overtly disappointed that the answering machine remained empty on her return. This time she said out loud, why don't you phone me? Then, finding herself standing stock-still staring at nothing on her way to the kitchen, she told herself to get a bloody grip and just bloody phone him instead. She took the piece of paper off the calendar hook and scrutinized the number she knew by heart.

Phone him to say what?

When are you coming home?

Why haven't you called?

Who's Kate?

What basis, though, did she have for asking any of those questions? After all, she had nothing to go on, nothing concrete at all. All he'd done was drink wine and break bread with her, leave her a Mars Bar or two. All that had happened was that he'd come in close to tell her something when they were crossing the Tees, which she'd interpreted as feeling like the verge of a kiss. And all he'd actually said was that he'd hold her hand if she didn't like heights. That's what you say to a child, isn't it. Or to anyone who's afraid of something.

She put the piece of paper back. She couldn't phone him. She could only think about him. And she found she could think about only him. She was intending to take a mug from the dresser to make a cup of tea. Instead, the photo of Joe bare-chested, in shorts and his safety hat by the unidentified bridge, caught her eye. She took it and sat down at the table. Maybe it wasn't such a long time ago. Maybe that's how he looks when he has a suntan and a hard hat. She flipped it over. It was dated just over three years previously. Above the date, the initials K.L.

Tess slumped. She felt deflated, deluded and silly – a school-girl crush she'd let run riot. Still, she was defenceless against stampeding thoughts.

K.L.

Bloody fucking Kay Ell.

Who are you, K.L.? Kate L. Who are you? Are you still here? Is he there with you now?

How can I ever compete?

How can I ever compete?

There's nothing like the unexpected attention of others to provide a timely distraction. Tess soon took herself to task, telling herself she needed a life beyond sprucing up an old house, or taking a mangy old mutt for walks whilst waiting in torment for the master to return. So she went to the toddler group at the library that afternoon and sat herself down by Lisa to sing nursery rhymes, in a circle of friendly women, babes in their laps. A group was meeting at another toddler drop-in tomorrow and Tess said, yes, OK, I'll be there. Good. Then she went to the station and looked into trains to Middlesbrough, calculating the fare against what she estimated petrol would cost. She discovered there were free t'ai chi classes and salsa dancing here in town. T'ai chi sounded good. Very balancing. But what about Em? There was always Em to think about. Tess thought about this familiar stalemate as she pushed her daughter past the bandstand near home. After the company and the decibel level and the newness of the singalong, she was pleased to have the playground to herself but she really was glad about the mums’ group. It would be nice for Em. Not just for Em, for her too. Though she doubted whether her cheery little daughter ever felt remotely socially deprived, Tess had also been in the playground at busy times when she'd envied the other local mums their friendship. A wider circle would be good for them both.

A car horn beeping.

A car door closing.

‘Hey!’

Tess looked to the road. Wolf, nonplussed, remained sprawled across the pavement outside the playground. By his side was Seb, waving. ‘I recognized the dog,’ he called. ‘Haven't seen you in a while.’

‘I've been – busy,’ Tess called.

‘Do I need a child to come in?’ He looked theatrically up and down the street as if hoping to come across one.

Tess laughed. ‘You can share this one?’

And as Seb came through to the play area, all brawny and attractively slouchy with his nonchalant amble, his blond hair licked into flicks and kinks by too much sea water, his constant half-smile, the premature but attractive laughter lines from grinning at the sun too much while surfing; as he came towards her, Tess thought to herself, bugger Joe and his disappearing act and his secret mother and Kate Bloody El. Bugger the lot of them.

‘Haven't seen you around,’ Seb said with disconcertingly steady eye contact.

‘I've been around – perhaps you've been out on the waves.’

‘Surf's been awesome. When are you going to let me take you out there?’

‘Between you and me, Seb, you'd have more success asking me to jump out of a plane, than to surf. It's all right for you Aussies – it's in your genes.’

‘What is it with you and the water?’

‘It's not the water – it's the getting there.’

‘The sand?’

‘You could say.’

‘I didn't realize quicksand was an issue in the UK.’

‘Not quicksand!’

‘Rip tide? Sandflies? Broken glass?’ He paused. ‘Jellyfish? Dog shit?’

‘I just don't like beaches.’