Keep My Secrets by Elena Wilkes (large ebook reader .txt) 📗

‘Great. Thanks. Thanks for all the support.’

She ends the call and gently slides the phone back onto the counter and a deep flutter of satisfaction thrills through her. Alex doesn’t speak. The atmosphere in the room is palpable with tension. She goes and sits and picks up her napkin.

‘So?’

‘It was Di.’

‘Of course it was. Who else would you be so desperate to speak to?’

‘Don’t be like that.’

How she would love to share Diane’s conversation with him. How she would love to blurt out that tonight Keeley is a ‘changed girl’ and somehow her actions have made a difference: that her job isn’t all about protocols and paperwork – it’s about seeing kids as people with potential – But she knows even a hint will just make everything much, much worse.

‘You haven’t been in five minutes.’ He chucks his fork down with a clatter. ‘You’ve been out of the house for twelve hours. Twelve. All I wanted was an hour of just us – one hour but even that’s not possible.’

The final flutter of joy fades away. ‘You’re right, you’re right,’ she soothes. ‘I’m sorry. I find it so difficult to switch off because it matters a lot to me, but you’re ri—’

‘You mean “it” matters a lot, but I don’t. Or if I do, there’s a queue and all those kids come first.’

He’s like a sulky child now: wounded and angry and unforgiving.

‘Alex, don’t be like this. It’s the kind of job that req—’

‘But it’s not though, is it Frankie? It’s not a job. Climbing onto roofs is not a social services job. No one else would dream of doing that! You do it because you’re compelled to. It’s something inside you. You’re driven. Even with the threat of the sack you won’t stop. And one day you’re going to meet someone who is just as driven and as passionate as you are, and who “gets” you. Someone who really understands who you are.’

‘But that’s you!’

‘I thought I was that person.’ He pauses and leans back, folding his arms. ‘But let’s get it out into the open, Frankie: you come home late, and you go out early. You’re distracted and distant a lot of the time. You’re evasive. I know something isn’t quite right. I don’t know if you’re lying to me, exactly…’ He looks at her, his eyes meet hers.

Tell him, a voice in her head instructs her. Tell him what’s been going on. It’s better than torturing him like this. But she finds her eyes automatically sliding away.

‘Like doing that.’ He glares at her. ‘Can’t you just be straight with me, Frankie? Be deathly honest. I can take it. It’s far, far better than deceit.’

His face is pale: pinched raw with emotion.

She goes to speak but stops.

‘Arghh, what’s the point?’ He shoves the seat back and it judders with a squeal across the floor.

‘Where are you going?’

But he ignores her. She listens to the weighted tread as he makes his way up the stairs and then the shunt of their bedroom door as it opens and closes. She stares down at her plate of congealing food and his, mostly uneaten. She considers going after him but knows it will only make it worse. What’s happened to them both? How have they got here?

She slumps at the table and rests the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. She knows exactly how they’ve got here. How long do you really think you can keep all these secrets, Frankie? How long before he finds out exactly what you’ve done? You’re deceiving the man who you swore to love and cherish. Are you pleased with yourself? Look at him; he’s so fragile he’s almost broken, and now you’re going to be the one who snaps him in two.

She glances over at the window. The blind is open and she finds herself unable to get up and close it. Some warning vibration outside in the blackness tells her he could be out there. The blank pane of glass sits there, dark and square. If she stands up he’ll be able to see her but she won’t see him. She has this terrible thought: what if he was there watching that whole performance? What if he’s just waiting for the right moment to knock on the door? How long will it be before he makes himself known and her whole carefully constructed world comes tumbling down?

She can hear Alex walking across the landing; the loose board by her office door creaks violently.

She gets up from the table, switches the kitchen lights off and creeps up the stairs, listening for the sound of the electric toothbrush or the swish of the water down the drain, but it doesn’t come; the bathroom is still and silent. Their bedroom door is tightly closed. When she clicks it open, she’s shocked to find he’s gone to bed, the mound of duvet is just a shadowy huddle.

She goes into the bathroom to clean her teeth and then gets undressed quietly and slides under the covers beside him. She knows that sleep is probably several hours away. She lies there, staring up at the ceiling, watching the weird shadows around the pendant light as the breeze from the window catches the shade. She hears the sounds of the foxes crying across the fields, all the while listening to the man beside her, knowing that he’s awake too – unhappy and not knowing how to express it. She’s never told him the truth, not even from the very moment they met.

Somewhere, down the hallway, that parcel is calling to her from its hiding place. She closes her eyes but it makes no difference: he’s calling to her and she knows it.

Everything, from that day on the park bench to now, has been a fabrication: her marriage to Alex, their relationship, the last fifteen years is a sham. He’s out there and he wants her and she knows