—21—
The Secret History by Donna Tartt
Frankston train line towards the city
One hand on his hip and the other shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, Sunny peered up at a stranded Frankie. In a vain attempt to disguise the madness unfolding around her, she crossed her arms in front of her torso. But there was no hiding this predicament.
‘What’s going on here, Frankie?’
Where the hell are you, Cat? ‘Uh, I can explain.’
‘I can’t wait to hear it. Want to come down and tell me?’
‘I’d love to.’ Frankie didn’t move.
‘You’re stuck, aren’t you?’
‘Yep.’ Frankie dropped her arms and hung her head.
Sunny clambered up onto the car and positioned himself opposite Frankie. Placing both hands under her arms, he helped her twist and turn her body. Together they managed to unwedge her hips so she could put one of her feet on top of the passenger seat and push her way up while Sunny gently guided her out. She flopped onto the roof of the car, butt pointing sky-high for a moment before commando crawling forward until she was lying as flat as a pancake on the bonnet.
Sunny peeked down through the half-open sunroof. He gave a long grimace, a shake of the head and propelled himself off the car.
‘What the hell, Frankie!’ he yelled as Frankie slowly sat up, then lowered herself to the ground. ‘Bananas? I’ll never get the smell out! I may as well sell the piece of junk now!’
Safely back on the ground, Frankie tried to regain her composure, her mind racing. What’s that thing Cat does? Power posing! She stood akimbo, clumsily thrusting her hands on her hips.
‘Sunny, you’ve been served.’
‘Served? What’s this all about?’ Sunny was clearly running out of patience. ‘I don’t hear from you in weeks and all of a sudden I arrive home to find you wedged in the roof of my car!’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what’s going on,’ Frankie retorted, tapping her foot for good measure.
‘Believe it or not, I’m going to need you to shed some light on the situation, Frankie.’
‘Have a look at the screensaver on your phone and tell me again you have no idea what’s going on here.’
Sunny squeezed his temples with his forefinger and thumb. Frankie looked on, eyebrows raised in a challenge.
‘Frankie, I can explain.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you can,’ Frankie said. ‘I bet you’ve woven this story a hundred times over!’
‘It’s really not what it looks like.’
‘It’s exactly what it looks like. Just how many women do you have dangling for your amusement? Two? Three? Five?’ Frankie bent down to pick up her bag and slipped on her sandals. She swivelled around and called over her shoulder, ‘Good luck with the bananas,’ and marched down the street.
‘Frankie.’ Sunny jogged up behind her, grabbing her shoulder and spinning her around so that they were face to face. ‘I’m telling you, you’ve got it all wrong!’ He looked into her eyes with an earnestness that not even Frankie could ignore. She exhaled loudly and brushed Sunny’s hand off her shoulder.
‘You have one minute,’ she said, waggling her index finger.
They took a seat on the kerb next to Sunny’s car. With her arms laced around her knees, Frankie looked out to the road. She channelled her best chilled apathetic vibe, sitting at a safe distance and keeping her eyes averted. She leaned casually to the side, as if to say, This better be good, but I don’t really care about what you say either way because I’m supercool and laid back.
Sunny shifted uncomfortably, and eventually spoke. ‘The woman in the picture was my girlfriend.’
‘Was? Oh, so you’ve broken up? Then why were you with her the other night? I saw you two together at The National.’
He froze, his jaw tightening. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Frankie was not backing down. ‘Then who was she? And don’t you dare say a long-lost relative. I saw the way you were looking at her.’
Sunny shook his head. She could see his frustration – or was it guilt? Hurt? – building. ‘She was a colleague. We were meeting about a big potential project. Not that I should have to justify myself to you.’
‘Oh, that’s rich.’
‘Look, Frankie, I didn’t want you to find out like this,’ Sunny started, ‘but, well, you’re right. The girl in the picture, we never broke up.’
‘Gotcha! You sneaky bastard! I knew it!’ Frankie shot up, glaring down at Sunny. ‘I’m outta here, Sunny. No need to say another word.’ She thrust her bag over her shoulder and stormed along the footpath. She was going to find Cat and kill her. It was her damn banana plot that led to this fateful run-in. And where the hell has she got to anyway? And fuck the supercool chick routine!
‘We never broke up because she died!’ Sunny yelled after Frankie. She froze, not daring to turn around. Well, I didn’t see that one coming.
‘She passed away a few years ago. I know I should change the photo, but I can’t bring myself to.’
Frankie took a long, deep breath and then turned to see Sunny standing with one foot resting on the footpath and the other on the road, head lowered, hands hanging limply by his side. His face was ashen. It was what she imagined Henry de Tamble would have looked like the first time he realised he would never see Clare Abshire again.
‘Jesus, Sunny …’ Frankie shuffled, tail between her legs, towards Sunny, placing her bag, along with her ego, back on the ground next to him. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She rested her hand on his arm, squeezing lightly.
They sat back on the edge of the worn nature strip, and it was now Frankie who shifted nervously. Another woman, she was prepared to deal with. This, however, was not quite as clear cut. The weight of the woman’s huge ghostly shoes bore down on her.
‘I know. It’s high time I moved on, right?’ Sunny broke the silence. ‘It’s been five years. Five years. But in today’s world, changing the picture just seems so final. You know?’
‘Oh, I totally get it,’ Frankie said, but she felt overwrought. She came here prepared to castrate him, not console him, and she couldn’t stop her next words from falling out of her mouth. ‘My family had a cat. Terribly gluttonous thing. He literally ate himself to death. I didn’t change my Facebook profile photo for over six months.’
‘Oh yeah, that’s totally the same thing,’ Sunny said, montone.
Frankie cleared her throat a little too loudly, looked to the ground and then dared to probe. ‘What was the story with you two?’
‘We were together for about eighteen months before she died.’ Sunny stopped. ‘We were in love. And then she was gone. In an instant. It’s just not the sort of thing you expect to have to deal with in your twenties. Or ever. You can’t prepare yourself for that kind of grief.’
‘I know I said I get it because of the whole cat thing, but I really don’t get it. I can’t even begin to fathom that kind of loss.’ Frankie itched with nerves. Her body ached for him, and a little for herself as well. She felt hot with her confusion, and her regret.
Sunny smiled, placing his hand on her thigh. ‘Those were some dark days, Rose. Some really dark days. She’d be disgusted to know that I’m still pining after her. She was always one to grab life by the horns.’ He looked over Frankie’s shoulder, peering into the car. ‘What the hell were you thinking with the bananas?’
‘Revenge plot gone wrong?’ Frankie shrugged, feigning innocence. ‘Look, if I’d known the truth, I would have gone a little easier on the rotten ones.’
‘You’re one of a kind, Frankston Rose.’
They sat in silence on the grass, staring out across the road, watching a handful of cars putter past and dogs mark their territory during their afternoon walks. Their shoulders barely grazed one another.
‘You know what?’ Sunny took out his phone. ‘If you can update that Facebook photo of your cat—’
‘William Shakespaw.’
‘If you can update William Shakespaw’s photo,’ he repeated, switching on his phone, ‘so can I.’ And he stretched his arm out, angling the phone towards them.
‘That’s really not necessary,’ Frankie said, trying to push the phone away, but Sunny resisted, snuggling in closer.
He put his arm around Frankie’s rigid frame. ‘To new beginnings. Say, “William Shakespaw!”’
Frankie burst through the front door of The Little Brunswick Street Bookshop. She found Cat standing in front of their new The Book Was Better stand, copies of The Time Traveller’s Wife, One Day and My Sister’s Keeper in one hand, her phone in the other. Seb stood in front of her, silently stacking books into a precariously positioned pyramid.
‘Well, it’s even worse than we thought,’ Frankie announced.
‘What do you mean?’ Cat asked, eyes not diverting from her phone.
‘Who on earth are you messaging?’ Frankie leaned over to look at Cat’s phone screen.
‘I’m making a “Hot Men Who Knit” Instagram page. Featuring Claud, Claud and more Claud.’ Cat faced her screen towards Frankie, revealing the new Instagram page flooded with pictures of Claud knitting at work, knitting by the fire, knitting on the bus, knitting in the kitchen (bare chested).
‘Claud is going to love that.’ Seb rolled his eyes. ‘So, Miss Rose, where were you for the better half of the morning?’
Frankie paused and craned her neck to check for any life within the folds of the bookshelves. No sign of customers.
‘Cat,’ she eventually whispered, ‘she’s dead.’
‘Who’s dead?’ Cat replied without making eye contact.
‘The Screensaver.’
‘What?!’ Cat and Seb screeched. ‘When? How? Oh my God, this is terrible.’ Cat finally dropped her phone and turned to face Frankie.
Frankie shuffled a pile of invoicing receipts left discarded on the counter, still processing the afternoon’s giant bomb detonated by Sunny. There was still so much more she wanted to know. Needed to know.
‘She died five years ago. He said he’s trying to move on. He even changed his screensaver today – replaced it with a photo of the two of us. How’s that for your modern-day romantic gesture?’
‘Did he say how she died?’ asked Seb.
‘Nope, he said he wasn’t ready to go into the details.’ Frankie sighed. ‘He still seems so torn up about it.’
‘Well, that’s understandable.’ Cat nodded. ‘And just to be clear, you don’t suspect that he murdered her?’ Cat narrowed her eyes. ‘Does he exhibit any anti-social behaviour? Any voyeuristic tendencies? A fixation with fire?’
‘Cat, he’s not a serial killer. You really need to let the sociopath thing go.’
‘And what about the woman from the pub? His accomplice, perhaps?’
‘Ha! A colleague, apparently.’
Frankie picked up a packet of glittery bunting from the floor and began nervously hanging it on the Blind Date with a Book display. This was some nightmare of a plot twist. ‘Oh God. What the hell am I going to do?’
‘This doesn’t have to be the end of the world. Okay, she’s dead. And yes, five years later she’s still his screensaver. But at least you know they can’t get back together.’
‘But don’t you get it?’ Frankie turned to face Cat. ‘All the bad stuff is automatically deleted when you die. I’ll always come up second best. Striving to live up to the perfect dead woman!’
‘Seb, please don’t bring Patrick into this.’ Frankie started to pace in tiny circles. ‘He couldn’t even bring himself to delete her from his phone. How do you expect him to delete her from his life? Not that I would expect him to. I just can’t live up to it. I’ll never be able to top her.’
‘You can top anyone, Frank,’ Seb offered kindly, but unhelpfully.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ Cat interjected.
‘I have no idea. Pay for his car to be cleaned?’ Frankie stopped and raised an eyebrow at Cat. ‘Thanks for that, by the way. Abandoning me mid-banana rampage. That’s the last time I let you talk me into one of your harebrained plans!’
‘Ah, you’re welcome, Frankie. Car filled with hundreds of bananas? It’s freakin’ brilliant.’
‘Why didn’t you come back? Where the hell did you go?’ Frankie asked.
‘The bathroom at the grocer’s was clogged, so I had to walk all the way to Seven Seeds. By the time I got back, you were already talking to him. It looked intense, and, you know me, I hate to meddle.’
They passed the afternoon like all good bookstore retailers: trading recommendations with customers and, where possible, stealing away to read – for consumer research, of course. But Frankie couldn’t help letting her mind wander through the events of the morning. A dead girlfriend. A partner in mourning. A photographic gesture. Where did she stand with this onion of a man? Restless, she picked up her phone and started to tap away furiously.
‘What are you doing?’ Cat called from across the store where she was reorganising the travel books.
‘I’m trying to find some answers.’
‘Answers to what? Don’t tell me you’re on WebMD again. I’ve told you, that extra fold of skin is totally normal.’
‘I’m not googling my symptoms, Miss It-Must-Be-Cancer, Please Play “Another One Bites the Dust” At My Funeral,’ Frankie said dismissively. ‘I’m trying to find information about Sunny’s girlfriend.’
‘Do you even know her name?’
‘Not yet,’ Frankie muttered as she scrolled through Sunny’s Facebook feed (thank God Cat had talked her into requesting his friendship after their first date), looking for posts about his deceased lover. ‘Aha! Hazel D.’
‘Jeez, you work quick.’ Cat joined Frankie, craning over her shoulder. ‘But no listed surname? This could be tricky.’
The front door swung open and, right on time, The Little Brunswick Street Bookshop’s most punctual customer walked in. Even when she was smiling, Mad Matilda always looked angry, and she would stomp into the bookstore every afternoon at 3.30, like clockwork. Cat murmured a greeting over her shoulder and then watched as Frankie weaved her way through the labyrinth of the internet, scrolling through obituary and coroner archives, looking furiously for any mention of a twenty-something with the corresponding first name or initials.
Hazel D death notice
Nothing!
Hazel D dies unexpectedly
Nothing!
Hazel D, Sunny Day’s girlfriend, dies
Nothing!
Forty-five minutes later, she still had nothing.
‘I give up!’ Frankie slammed down her phone, ignoring the sceptical stares from a customer slinking through the children’s section. ‘It’s like she never even existed.’
Then Frankie was recoiling in horror. ‘Oh, shit!’ She threw her phone across the table.
‘What is it?’ Cat said, startled.
‘He’s calling!’
‘Who? Sunny? Answer it!’
‘I can’t. I’m not ready to speak to him. It’s all too heavy!’
‘Jesus, Frank, you’re being ridiculous.’ Cat scooped up the vibrating phone and answered cordially, exchanging some pleasantries before passing the phone to an unimpressed Frankie.
‘What’s up, Sunny?’ she said, totally, one-hundred-per-cent supercool laid-back chick again. Cat looked on in suspense, subconsciously nodding along with Frankie’s ‘uh-huhs’ and ‘mmm hmms’. After a few minutes, Frankie put the phone down and bent to collect the pre-order logbook from under the desk. She began to casually search for the latest entry.
‘So?’ Cat breathed.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Frankie said nonchalantly. ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow night.’
‘Tomorrow night?’
‘Yep.’ Frankie casually cross-checked deliveries. ‘He said he would cook for me. He asked if frozen banana cake would do.’
‘Frozen? What does that mean?’
‘He said, and I quote: “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”’