The House of Secrets by Sarra Manning (20)

 

The first day that Win was gone, when it came to the time he usually came home, and there was no sound of his key in the lock, the front door opening and closing, then a querulous ‘Zoe?’ from the foot of the stairs, it felt like a stay of execution.

Besides, even if she didn’t have Win, Zoe had Beyoncé. From thinking that she was a cat person, after only one day, Zoe was quite overcome with the rush of affection that swept over her each time she saw that ridiculous, furry face or took a whiff of the warm corn snack smell of the dog when she rolled over onto her back and wiggled her paws imperiously until Zoe rubbed her belly.

Beyoncé also gave Zoe’s life a structure she hadn’t had in a long time. An hour’s walk in the morning, an hour’s walk in the afternoon and, unlike Zoe, Beyoncé couldn’t subsist on cheese and crackers but needed two proper meals a day. More than that, the dog needed, and gave back full force, unconditional love so that when Zoe inevitably did begin to miss Win after only a couple of days and she’d start to cry, Beyoncé would scramble into her lap as Zoe sat and remembered the Win that she’d first fallen in love with.

She could actually pinpoint the very day when she realised she had more than a crush on the strange, stern young man who managed her accounts.

They’d known each other nearly a year and been friends for a few months by then, but if circumstances were different, if she were braver, Zoe would have preferred to be something more. She settled for frequently visiting Win to present him with silly little sketches of Camden Town life – the stallholders from Inverness Street market, the neighbourhood scenesters taking the air, baby punks hanging around the World’s End pub – which made him laugh, before they dealt with the official-looking envelopes Zoe refused to open unless Win was standing over her.

So, that day. THE day. A sunny Friday afternoon in October. First, Zoe had run the gauntlet of the receptionist, Audrey, ‘Aud on the board’ they all called her. ‘He’s in his office, just go straight up.’ Audrey had given Zoe the usual coy look.

Win had been wearing a very smart navy blue suit, crisp pale blue shirt and a red tie. ‘Went to court this morning with a client,’ he said to Zoe when he saw her gawp because he looked even more like a proper grown-up than he normally did. Zoe always looked improper in her ubiquitous baggy green jumper and stripy tights, clutching a carrier bag full of sketchbooks and pens. ‘Managed to get his impending county court judgement stopped. His former accountant was useless.’ He’d rolled his eyes. ‘Won’t bore you with the details because they really are exceptionally boring. So, what’s up?’

Zoe handed him three ominous brown envelopes, which Win had opened, kept two and handed her one back. ‘This is from your dentist reminding you you’re due a check-up. I’m not getting involved in your medical affairs; that would be crossing a line, though I have to ask why you’re standing like that?’

‘Like what?’ Zoe had immediately straightened up and winced when something pinged in her lower back.

‘Like that.’ Win had placed his hand on her shoulder. Zoe could smell soap powder and the light zingy scent of his aftershave. ‘Like you’re in pain.’

‘Just backache. My bed sags in the middle.’ Zoe had immediately wished she’d invented something more sexy like a salsa dancing injury when Win had sighed and looked at his watch.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re going to buy you a bed.’

‘But you can’t just… I mean, how would you… Buying a bed is quite a complicated business, isn’t it?’

‘It really isn’t.’ Win picked up his briefcase. ‘It’s fairly straightforward and speaking as your accountant, you can afford a new bed. You could afford several new beds if you wanted.’

They’d taken the bus to Tottenham Court Road, Win folding up his legs to sit next to Zoe rather than in the empty seat behind so he could stretch out, which she tried not to take as A Sign. She’d kept up a steady stream of chatter. What she was doing that weekend; dress shopping with her friend Mercedes, Sunday lunch at a pub in Islington, a karaoke party with a performance art student called Tony Cortes, who Zoe had slept with during Fresher’s Week and intermittently ever since, though Win didn’t know that, then Zoe had followed Win off the bus and into a bed shop.

‘We need a bed,’ he’d called out to the nearest salesman.

‘A double?’

Win had looked Zoe up and down. ‘No, better make it a kingsize.’

Zoe pointed at a bed in the middle of the shop with an old-fashioned brass bedstead. ‘That one,’ she said. ‘Can I have that one?’

‘Certainly, madam.’ The salesman managed to peel himself off the wall he was leaning against. ‘Do you like a soft or firm mattress?’

‘I don’t know,’ Zoe admitted. ‘Um, soft, I suppose.’

‘No.’ Win came to stand between Zoe and the salesman. ‘You need a firm mattress, something with a lot of support.’

‘I don’t want a hard mattress, Win,’ Zoe said and he’d taken her arm, his eyes wide and pleading.

‘Zoe! On average we spend a third of our day in bed. Eight hours. On a mattress that should be replaced every ten years at the very least.’ He did some rapid mental arithmetic, which made his eyes flicker. ‘You’re going to spend twenty-nine thousand and two hundred hours sleeping on that mattress.’ He’d grinned and Zoe had felt something inside her do a loop the loop. ‘I haven’t accounted for leap years, because I’m not a total numbers nerd but that’s a lot of hours to spend on a substandard mattress. Years from now do you want to be one of those little old women with a dowager’s hump all because of this moment in this shop when you chose the wrong mattress?’

Zoe wasn’t a person of strong convictions but when she did chance upon one, then even Win wouldn’t be able to sway her. But she didn’t have any strong convictions about mattresses, just the strongest conviction that if she died now while lying next to Win as they tested a variety of different mattresses, then she’d die happy.

‘We’ll take this one,’ Win decided after they’d spent two minutes stretched out on a very firm mattress but not so firm that it was like lying on breeze block. ‘We need it delivered on Monday. How much discount do we get for paying upfront? Fifteen per cent sounds fair.’

It was five minutes after closing time. On a Friday afternoon. Win haggled Zoe a ten per cent discount and when he also persuaded the salesman to throw in two memory foam pillows, Zoe realised that she didn’t just have a stupid, debilitating schoolgirl crush on Win. It was so much more than that.

Ever since she’d first met him, Win had looked out for her best interests, be they financial or otherwise. He was a good man. Clever, smart, funny. She liked his face too, couldn’t imagine she’d ever grow tired of it. This was someone she’d always want in her life. Someone she wanted to share her life with.

‘Because I’m so bossy?’ Win had asked, crestfallen, when they’d moved past accountant and client, way past being friends, and he was sharing that kingsize bed with her night after night. ‘That’s why you fell in love with me?’

‘Not bossy – driven, focused,’ Zoe had said. ‘Anyway, we both know that you’re not that bossy, like we both know that I’m not as fragile and helpless as people seem to think I am.’

Zoe felt fragile and helpless now as she remembered how good they’d been, she and Win, and she cried as she filled the kettle in their makeshift kitchen in their makeshift house, which was meant to have made everything in their makeshift lives come right.

‘Come on, pet, don’t cry,’ said Gavin from somewhere behind her and Zoe felt a hand descend heavily onto her shoulder. ‘I see couples split up over house renovations all the time. It’s not the house that needs renovating; it’s their relationship,’ he added sagely, which wasn’t comforting. Neither was the hand rhythmically pummelling her shoulder.

‘But the house does need renovating,’ Zoe sniffed. ‘And we’re not split up. We’re just taking some space. Well, Win is.’

Her face crumpled again as if it were trying to turn itself inside out and Gavin reached past Zoe for the kitchen roll, tearing off a couple of pieces and handing them to her so she could wipe her eyes, blow her nose.

‘The thing about Win, and you know this better than anyone, is that he’s sensitive. Always has been, even as a kid. Though it’s hardly surprising with Terry being the way he was and all the nonsense that went on.’

Zoe always forgot that Gavin’s relationship with Jackie, nine years and counting, was actually pre-dated by a friendship that stretched back decades. He’d been at school with Jackie and Terry, Win and Ed’s father, had gone to the same teenage parties and discos, was friends with Jackie’s older brother, Keith, so had had a ringside seat for Win’s formative years.

She blew her nose again. ‘Terry’s right up there with Voldemort for people who should not be named, let alone talked about.’

‘Volde who?’

Zoe did smile at that. ‘I’m just saying that Win hardly ever talks about his dad. Yes, he and Ed have some stories that they always drag out when his name comes up but that’s about it.’

Apart from the almighty row Win and Ed had had about Ed inviting Terry to the christening of Extra-Large, as she and Win called Ed’s eldest child, most mentions of their father usually involved one of Terry’s mad schemes. A business deal gone awry, which resulted in him buying twenty boxes of Pot Noodle sight unseen. The Rolls Royce he’d won in a poker game whose engine had fallen out halfway up Shooters Hill. How he’d broken his leg in a betting shop because he’d fallen over doing a victory jig when his three-way accumulator bet had come good.

Now Zoe remembered that, despite Win’s objections, a christening invitation had been sent to Terry who’d promised to come but ended up as a no-show. Terry had finally put in an appearance at Medium’s Christening, but he’d been so drunk that Amanda’s father had asked him to leave. Zoe had missed all the drama as she’d taken Extra-Large and Large to the park because they were both going through a very loud squealing phase.

When it had come to their own wedding, Zoe had asked Win if he wanted to invite Terry and Win had said no. It had been a very forbidding no and Win’s face had tightened the way it always did when Terry’s name came up. His voice would become husky too so Zoe never pried. She’d squeeze Win’s hand and kiss his cheek so he’d know he didn’t have to shoulder any burden alone; which actually hadn’t worked out very well as a strategy as now they were shouldering their burdens alone when they should have been a team, working through things together.

‘The thing with Terry was that it was all fun and games until it wasn’t,’ Gavin revealed. ‘As soon as things got tough, which they always did and usually because he owed people money, he’d bugger off and leave Jackie to pick up the pieces.’

‘Kind of like Win’s doing now,’ Zoe complained to Gavin, who’d taken over the tea-making. ‘I know that I’ve been difficult to live with and that we took on more than we realised with the house, but he’s just closed down. It’s what he always does instead of talking things through. He won’t talk about the baby at all, like he doesn’t even care about what happened.’

‘Of course he does. He was in pieces that night when you were rushed to hospital. I’ve never seen him like that before, Zo. He sat in the waiting room while you were in surgery, face the colour of porridge, and kept saying over and over again, “I can’t lose her.” Got me quite choked up, but generally, the Rowells are an odd bunch.’ Gavin shrugged as if he wasn’t concerned that the family they’d both married into were emotionally stunted. ‘Don’t like talking about their feelings and stuff. Doesn’t really bother me. My ex never stopped talking about her feelings and it doesn’t mean Win doesn’t care. Or Jackie. You know they do. But her way of caring is to put the kettle on.’ Gavin held Zoe’s own just boiled kettle aloft for emphasis. ‘Your boy is drowning in tea at the moment.’

Zoe had to smile at that. Her first week at home after being in hospital, Jackie had all but moved in because Zoe’s own mother was far away. There hadn’t been anything in the way of a heart to heart, which at the time was something of a relief but there had been cups of tea, every hour, on the hour. ‘Win doesn’t even like tea that much,’ Zoe said, as she took the mug Gavin held out to her. ‘Are the two of you butting heads every night when you fill him in on the latest developments in the saga of the boiler?’

‘Says he’s not interested,’ Gavin said, as he picked up the laden tray. ‘Be a love and tuck that packet of chocolate biscuits under my arm, will you?’

Later that evening, Zoe called Win. Win was always the one to make the first move when they argued but always wasn’t working any more. Her call went straight to voicemail. Her garbled message (‘Just calling to see how you are? How’s your knee? I miss you. Are you missing me too? I hope you are.’) not returned. Her many texts bombarding Win with queries about the house went unanswered too, until he replied with a terse Your house, you sort it out.

It did occur to Zoe that Win was behaving like a dick. Cath said as much when she came round with a consolation curry and a couple of bottles of Pinot Noir. ‘Which is strange really, because Win is the least dickish man I know. Apart from Theo and even he has his dickish moments.’

It also occurred to Zoe that she could fix her own mess and send Beyoncé back to the shelter and then Win might come back to Elysian Place, but she couldn’t bear to be parted from the source of all her current joy and this, their argument, wasn’t about Beyoncé. It never had been. She’d just been the catalyst for Win to find his voice, to catalogue all the many ways he was miserable.

Well, Zoe was miserable too. There was nothing left to do but take to her bed to have a good cry and wish that her bed wasn’t in a storage unit off the North Circular because taking to an airbed wasn’t really the same thing.

It was impossible to cry for any sustained amount of time with Beyoncé around because she immediately curled up next to Zoe and attempted to enthusiastically lick away the tears before they’d had a chance to fall. But despite Beyoncé’s best efforts and even knowing that Cath was only a text message away, Zoe had never felt so lonely before and the only other person who she knew would understand was Libby.

Getting the suitcase down and taking the diary out still felt like an illicit act, something secret that she could only do when there was nobody else around, but curiosity always got the better of Zoe and she quickly opened the diary to find solace in its pages.

Zoe had last left Libby at the end of March and as she flicked through there wasn’t much solace to be had in her April entries; a series of weekly, then twice-weekly appointments written in some obscure code.

Then, on a torn scrap of paper:

Zoe frowned. New love? She would never be ready for a new love. It was Win; it always had been for her, but here was yet more evidence of Libby moving on.

She flicked back a few pages. HW/HW. Zoe leafed back even further because the initials HW were prodding a dim, distant memory and there, nestling between the twenty-first and twenty-second of February, was a business card belonging to a Hugo Watkins.

A car salesman. Zoe pulled a face at Beyoncé, who gazed impassively back at her, head tilted to one side. Zoe shouldn’t judge but she’d never had a good experience with a car salesman. At least this Hugo Watkins was a cut above – he owned a car showroom in Mayfair, but could Libby really have loved Freddy as much as she claimed if she found it so easy to love again?

Zoe retraced her steps in the diary to the entry she’d been reading before she got sidetracked and realised that there was more. Three drafts of a letter to Freddy. The first was a howl of pain that echoed in the chambers of Zoe’s own heart.

Oh, Freddy. It’s not fair that you can simply walk away. Send me a few of those pretty words that you write so well and think you’ve done your penance when I have to live with the pain, the loss, every minute of every hour of every day. 

Zoe had to stop there. Not only had they both lost babies – she and Libby had also been abandoned by the men they loved. Yes, Win was only ten minutes up the road in his mum’s spare room but it felt as if there was a world between them.

‘Don’t, Beyoncé,’ she muttered, as the little dog put her front paws on Zoe’s chest, all the better to reach Zoe’s face with her tongue. ‘Not crying, so stop licking me!’

She settled the dog back in her lap, opened the diary again to read the second draft, which wasn’t that much different to the first, then the final version, which Zoe supposed Libby must have sent to Freddy.

Then Libby went back to her dates with HW, the mysterious Hugo Watkins, and that was all she wrote until Zoe found Freddy’s hurt reply sandwiched between two pages at the start of May.

Zoe had already cast Freddy as the villain of the piece. Had written him off as callous and cruel and utterly heartless, but there was a wounded quality to his words that resonated with her even if Zoe was on Libby’s side. How could she not be? They’d both suffered the same loss.

And yet if Win had left her while she’d been recovering in hospital (and Zoe couldn’t think of a single scenario where that might be the case, not even if Win had discovered that she’d taken a whole legion of lovers behind his back), there was no way that Zoe would be thinking of new love, of dating, of meeting up for twice-weekly trysts just a few months later.

Perhaps she and Libby weren’t so alike after all, Zoe thought as she turned May’s mostly blank pages without really seeing them, until she came to another letter.

It wasn’t in Libby’s careless scribble or Freddy’s elegant, looped hand but in a very old-fashioned, copperplate script.

Zoe was at a loss. What was the point of spending the night together if Hugo was promising to behave like a perfect gentleman? If they were having an affair, where was the fun in that?

What was clear from his letter was that Hugo was married too, which meant that the bond between Zoe and Libby was weakening still further. Libby knew the agony of being left by her husband so why would she wish that on another woman?

It made no sense. Or perhaps Libby wasn’t the tragic heroine that Zoe had wanted her to be.

Zoe tucked Hugo’s letter into its envelope and was about to place it back in the diary when she saw that Libby had written in pencil on the back of the envelope. The writing tiny and furious, like ants crawling across the faded paper.

Zoe thrust the diary away, almost dislodging Beyoncé from her lap. If Libby loved Freddy so much, despite the truly terrible way he’d betrayed her, then instead of moping about it, getting embroiled in some sordid affair with this Hugo, she should have gone to Spain and dragged him back home. If she’d really loved him.

Because when you loved someone, you fought for them. Hard.

Despite recent evidence, Win loved her; it was one of those few things that Zoe had a strong conviction about. She loved him too and love didn’t just wither and die. It stuck around. Their love was still there, lurking in the background, and Zoe would do whatever she had to do to drag it, kicking and screaming, into the light.

Win didn’t want to come home because they currently didn’t have a home but a house in progress, which was weeks behind schedule.

Zoe did dislodge Beyoncé then, much to the dog’s grunted disapproval, so she could get to her feet, grab a notebook and walk from room to room. Taking stock, making notes, hatching a plan.

Houses were much easier to mend than hearts so that’s where she’d start.