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

‘I'll say you wanted some peanuts with your Scotch,’ said Milly.

‘I'll say he wanted a double,’ said the other.

‘I can offer you a Murray Mint,’ said Milly and her fingers faffed with a packet and Joe felt it would be rude to say no even though he knew that accepting a mint would invite conversation.

‘Business?’ said Milly.

‘Pleasure?’ said the other.

‘A little of both,’ Joe nodded and suddenly he thought, sod England and Saltburn and all who are there – Nathalie doesn't know the details but she knows she has amends to make and she'll know the perfect way to do that. Finally, Joe had a solution: brain rest in France from the head-fuck at home.

‘A French lady friend, is it?’

‘She comes with the job,’ Joe said, not caring if the women detected his tongue in cheek because he was consumed by an image of Nathalie coming – her gasps and groans, the way her body would tauten, the way she stretched and arched herself worthy of any porn film.

Milly bristled at his rather vulgar turn of phrase.

‘Gracious,’ the other murmured, ‘it's not just the pension and the paid holidays – they think of everything these days.’

Joe looked at her and he liked her wry smile so he chinked plastic cups, though his was empty.

‘Is she French, then, your lady friend – your chérie?’ she asked, nudging Milly when she spoke the single word of French.

From nowhere, Joe wanted to ask them, do you have sons? He wanted to ask, do you have a good relationship with them – now? Did you – when they were little? Do they have lady friends, your boys? He wanted to ask, how old are you? Are you well? He wanted to say, my mother is nearly seventy-five – only seventy-five – but she has dementia and I pay for her to stay less than a mile from where I live because she made my life a misery then and I won't let her make a misery of it now. He wanted to say, I don't mean to punish her – I just want my life to myself.

‘I work in France, on and off,’ he said instead, ‘and there's an on–off woman there too. It's been easy and enjoyable and has suited me just fine. But now there's a girl back home – and it's complicated everything.’

‘Whoever said life should be simple?’ said Milly.

But the other lady said, ‘Funny how you call the one in France a woman and the one back home a girl.’

And Joe thought, it is odd that I should do that – not least because the girl at home is older than the woman in France, and a mother herself.

‘I'd say it's make-your-mind-up time,’ said Milly. ‘It can't be fair on anyone to be carrying on like this. Not least yourself.’

Joe was about to clarify the situation – but then he thought, why? What's to clarify anyway? Nathalie – and all the other Nathalies I provide myself with – they are what I know, what I've chosen; they have suited me perfectly over the years. Why break the habit of a lifetime? Never in a million years could it work out with Tess. Anyway, she'll probably be gone by the time I'm next home. Gone – for good.

‘Can I buy you ladies a drink?’ Joe asked, seeing the trolley returning.

Tess spent two days wandering about slightly stooped, often clutching her stomach as if she had some gastric bug. She felt ragged. She felt wrung out – as if the pain of losing Joe before she had even had him was being fed through a mangle together with the gut-wrenched dread of being potentially homeless and jobless. When she was in the house, she'd trail her hand wherever she went; touching the walls gently as if they were animate, clasping the banister as if it was a helping hand, pressing her cheek against the closed door of Joe's study as if to detect a heartbeat, her fingertips trailing the undulations of the dado as if reading for positive messages in Braille. When she went out, it was for short trips only – requisite fresh air for dog and child. She felt depleted of the energy required to walk far, to tackle the hill back home. She ate toast and Marmite without tasting it. She didn't drink enough water and had headaches because of it. She couldn't sleep at night and felt half-hazed by the afternoon. She didn't think of Seb at all, let alone wonder if he was back from wherever he'd been. She didn't think to call Tamsin. The only person she could think of was Joe and she couldn't very well call him though she begged the phone to ring and be him.

The day he left, when Em slept after lunch, Tess shut Wolf in the kitchen and went to Joe's bedroom. There, she lay on his bed and inhaled into one pillow while placing another one lengthways along her back. With eyes closed and her dreaming head on, she could almost conjure the sensation of another body. She let tears blot into his sheets and she whispered out loud to the room, as if her words might somehow travel through the ether to him. Sorry, she said. She said, please come back. She said, please let me stay. I do not want to go, she said, and I so want you to come back.

With so much time spent in the house in voluntary exile, Tess developed imaginary conversations with Joe, honing gesture and expression in front of any reflective surface she passed, rehearsing as if she might have the opportunity to perform them. She would cast her eyes down before looking up at him and she practised diverse apologies and manifold ways to express them. Perhaps touch his arm for emphasis. Have him feel touched. Not to save her skin – though the thought of leaving the Resolution was so abhorrent that she refused to touch upon it again – rather, she wanted to say sorry because it was simply warranted. She knew she hadn't just picked up the wrong end of the stick – she'd made an impetuous grab and had clung on tight, refusing to loosen her grip despite the stick she'd swooped on being riddled and rotten. She'd made a reality of Joe's past and present that were so far removed from the truth they now precluded any future for her with him. He'd done nothing wrong: not kissing her on the Transporter Bridge was no crime. He was doing nothing wrong – having a French fuck was not illegal. To be estranged from his mother was a shame, but no sin.

Kuala Lumpur. Kay effing Ell. What an utter fool she'd made of herself and what a shambles she'd made for herself. So there was no Kate. No Kate at all. It was now glaringly logical that a batty old woman could fabricate a nonexistent person, whether wilfully or otherwise. What an utter waste of worrying. But if there was no Kate, now there was no Tess, no Tess at all either – and she was entitled to worry about that. How could she make amends – and was it possible? Hadn't he told her to go? But wasn't it a crime to let wholesome daydreams go to waste? Wasn't there some Richard Bach adage that proclaimed we're not given dreams without the power to fulfil them? She scanned Joe's bookshelves. No Richard Bach. She wasn't surprised.

Tess found herself by the phone often; staring at it, looking at all those numbers there for the dialling, listening thoughtfully to the dialling tone as if hoping to detect a secret message. She cursed herself for cutting up her SIM card – how she'd love to compose a text message to Joe that, despite the brevity and abbreviations of the medium, would say so much.

Pls 4giv, me so sorry, me silly, me vv embrssd – truth is i think i love u. Txxx

But no doubt her contract was suspended now because the direct debit would not have gone through. She thought about pay-as-you-go, or going to an Internet café and sending an email, even if it necessitated the cost of a trip to Middlesbrough. However, she had no email address for him – but that was OK because she couldn't bear the thought of Joe accessing his BlackBerry from that Frenchwoman's bed. She could write snail-mail – but where would she send it? And what exactly would she say? What was it that she really wanted to say? Of course she wanted to say sorry because she was very sorry – but the apology she wanted to give wasn't entirely altruistic. She wanted to elicit a particular response. If she could deliver the best sorry in the world, then Joe might be moved to say, don't go, Tess, don't leave. I'm coming back Tess, put the supper on. Stay.

She felt impotent and it made her feel small and unattractive. And then, perversely, she'd make herself feel even smaller, even less attractive, by thinking about Nathalie; taunting herself that at this very moment, Joe was probably with her. Bugger the crisis on the bridge. They were in his bed having fun. His BlackBerry on vibrate, placed on her stomach, on her thighs, up between them. Laughing and kissing and being intimate and sexy. Look at her amazing figure, at her stylish apartment. She knows all about Kuala Lumpur – she's been there. Well-travelled, high-heeled, sophisticated woman that she is. See how elegantly she dresses for some amazing job. Watch her undressing so seductively in front of entranced Joe. Why would he want Tess when he can be in France and have No Strings Nathalie?

The fabricated images sickened Tess more than the reality of her current situation. However, by forcing her mind to dwell on imaginings, she was able to postpone figuring out what on earth she was going to do. Not just about Joe – about everything. There'd be no pay-as-you-go phone. No train to an Internet café in Middlesbrough. There was no money for such things, there was only a small amount left now, earmarked for Em of course.

Chapter Nineteen (#ulink_ce0441c6-6c0b-57fb-85fc-55e8e6b087e8)

For a girl who hated the beach, Tess did a very good job of burying her head in the sand. Five days on, she hadn't contacted Joe nor had she made any attempt to look for another job. In fact she'd gone to greater lengths finding reasons to stay. Lisa she liked very much, meeting up with her and a couple of other mums almost daily. The friendships soon extended to tea and coffee at their houses where chat deepened and Tess told them that yes, she used to live in London but no, she wouldn't be returning – home was here now.

She found herself saying the same to Tamsin whom she finally phoned, spur of the moment and reverse charges from a call box near the station. Listening to the dialling tone, she was ready to confide, to ask advice, to be honest. When Tamsin answered, Tess found herself steering clear of anything to do with her situation. She didn't want to invite Tamsin to ask her what she was going to do. She couldn't tell her what had happened – it would just sound too ludicrous out loud.

I can't believe you thought Kuala Lumpur was Kate Someone-Beginning-With-L, you numpty.

Why on earth did you have a go at Joe for not kissing you?

You told him about his mother – are you mad?

He's admitted to having this woman in France? Well, what are you hanging around for?

Don't bloody phone him, Tamsin would say. She'd say, pack up your stuff and come back down here. You've done your potty Northern sojourn, now it's time to face reality. Tamsin would tell her, you're not in some Channel 4 documentary about starting a new life in some far-flung place, you know. You ran away to a seaside town in the North-East. Now you've been sacked. So come back, Tess, come back to what and where you know.

But Tess didn't want to risk Tamsin saying any of this, so she made everything sound peachy and she kept the conversation short enough so she had time and energy to phone her sister. The more upbeat she'd been on the phone to Tamsin, the more reality hit her once the call ended. She had no option other than to phone Claire and it was one call she didn't dare reverse the charges; she couldn't risk antagonizing her sister before the conversation was underway.

After pleasantries, the predictable pause. Then, the purpose of the call, which Tess requested in a voice akin to the wringing of hands. Joe had left without paying her and her funds had dwindled alarmingly. She needed her sister to help and her sister made it a horrible thing to have to ask. But Tess did ask, and after an extravagant sigh, her sister responded.

‘For God's sake, Tess, how long do you actually spend physically house-sitting? Surely you can do something else in between?’

Be nice, Tess thought, don't take offence. Claire wants to be humoured – like the last time I had to ask.

‘I did think about it – and there's a waitressing position at Virgo's which is a lovely place, it does all this gluten-free food too.’

‘Even better – they probably give you a free gluten-free meal per shift too.’

‘But Claire, the problem is Em. I looked into making arrangements for her – I scanned the local paper and the notices in the library but I worked out that what I'd be paid against what I'd pay out for childcare, would be so negligible as to be not worth it.’

‘You were in that situation in London.’

‘I know.’

‘So in other words, you've made no progress at all with your life have you.’

‘But I have! I mean, you're right of course, on a practical level – but to live like this here, in Saltburn, is much better for Em than living like this there – back in London.’

‘A change of scenery does not change a situation, Tess. God. Look, I'll pop a cheque for a hundred pounds in the post – OK? But don't bloody ask again – not till your birthday or Christmas. It's not that I can't afford it, it's that I feel I'm not doing you any favours. You've got to drag yourself out of this pit, Tess. You've been in it for long enough. I know about things like this – it becomes habit, to wallow.’

You? Claire? Know about this? When you've been provided for and kept in the manner to which you so swiftly became accustomed as soon as you met your husband? You with your joint bank account into which you put no funds? Your rich, devoted husband providing you with a chequebook and a credit card, support and approval, for your every whim?