Read Online The Secrets Between Us by Louise Douglas - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Douglas
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as I laid my purchases on the counter to be paid for and bagged. ‘He’s so gorgeous. He’s going to look lovely in this.’ And the assistants smiled and they didn’t ask where my baby was. Nobody ever asked.
So I bought nappies and vests, and hundreds of pounds’ worth of clothes. I filled up my drawers with baby-boy clothes and toys and, when I was alone in the house, I took the clothes out and laid them out on the bed, and I talked to my son as I held each item to my cheek.
Laurie knew about the clothes, but he didn’t say anything; not to me anyway. But I knew he knew, because sometimes I’d catch him staring at me with concern in his eyes, as if Iwere an alcoholic and he’d found a half-empty bottle of vodka hidden in the laundry basket.
In the bedroom at Avalon I pushed the drawers shut; they were stiff and creaky. I stood up and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.
I supposed this part of the house hadn’t been used for ages. The radiator was icy cold. The room needed airing; that was all. It needed somebody to live in it and open the windows and bring it back to life.
I washed my hands and face in the bathroom further up the landing, put on some fresh mascara, brushed my hair and went back downstairs.
Jamie was lying on the sofa in the living room, with his head hanging over the side, watching TV and eating cubes of cheese and crisps from a bowl on the carpet. The kitchen door was closed but I could hear Alexander’s voice beyond.
‘Is your dad on the phone?’ I asked Jamie.
He nodded, without taking his eyes from the television.
I sat down beside him, picked up his feet and put them on my lap. His socks were sticky and smelled of trainers and sweat.
‘He’s talking to Grandma,’ he said.
Genevieve’s mother, I presumed.
‘She didn’t want you to come,’ Jamie said. ‘She thinks it’s a scene.’
‘A scene?’
‘A bus scene.’
‘Oh. Obscene.’
‘She says you’re a hole-digger.’
‘I think she meant gold-digger.’
Jamie looked up at me, caught my eye and looked away again.
‘What’s a gold-digger?’
‘It’s a person who pretends to be somebody’s friend because they want the other person’s money.’
Jamie stared at me while he thought about this information.
‘No, I think Grandma did mean hole-digger,’ he said.
I tried to hide my smile but I wasn’t quick enough.
‘Grandma doesn’t think it’s funny,’ said Jamie.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Nor do I.’
Jamie fished the remote control from the carpet and turned up the volume on the television. He pulled his feet away from me.
I stood, stretched, switched on the light and drew the curtains. I wandered to the far end of the room and studied the spines of the books in the case. Amongst a plethora of Jilly Cooper novels, books on horse management and eventer biographies were a couple of Italian language dictionaries and guidebooks and a number of books on law. Framed photographs stood on top of the case. Most were of Jamie at various stages of development but in amongst them was a portrait of a woman. It had to be Genevieve. I picked it up and held it to the light.
She didn’t look as I had imagined her. She was smiling in that bashful way that the most attractive people do – as if they know how beautiful they are and are faintly apologetic about it. She was standing beside a railing in some foreign country; beyond, a range of slate-grey cliffs towered over a perfectly green sea. One slender hand rested on the railing and her face was turned towards the camera. Her hair, the silver-gold-buff colour of ripe wheat, was shoulder length, well cut. She wore a yellow vest-shirt, shorts, a wedding ring. Her shoulders were smooth and tanned. Her composure and grace reminded me of an old-fashioned celebrity but her look was contemporary. She had a heart-shaped, symmetrical face and dark eyes beneath long, dark lashes. She was beautiful; there was no denying it. Genevieve was lovely.
‘That’s
So I bought nappies and vests, and hundreds of pounds’ worth of clothes. I filled up my drawers with baby-boy clothes and toys and, when I was alone in the house, I took the clothes out and laid them out on the bed, and I talked to my son as I held each item to my cheek.
Laurie knew about the clothes, but he didn’t say anything; not to me anyway. But I knew he knew, because sometimes I’d catch him staring at me with concern in his eyes, as if Iwere an alcoholic and he’d found a half-empty bottle of vodka hidden in the laundry basket.
In the bedroom at Avalon I pushed the drawers shut; they were stiff and creaky. I stood up and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.
I supposed this part of the house hadn’t been used for ages. The radiator was icy cold. The room needed airing; that was all. It needed somebody to live in it and open the windows and bring it back to life.
I washed my hands and face in the bathroom further up the landing, put on some fresh mascara, brushed my hair and went back downstairs.
Jamie was lying on the sofa in the living room, with his head hanging over the side, watching TV and eating cubes of cheese and crisps from a bowl on the carpet. The kitchen door was closed but I could hear Alexander’s voice beyond.
‘Is your dad on the phone?’ I asked Jamie.
He nodded, without taking his eyes from the television.
I sat down beside him, picked up his feet and put them on my lap. His socks were sticky and smelled of trainers and sweat.
‘He’s talking to Grandma,’ he said.
Genevieve’s mother, I presumed.
‘She didn’t want you to come,’ Jamie said. ‘She thinks it’s a scene.’
‘A scene?’
‘A bus scene.’
‘Oh. Obscene.’
‘She says you’re a hole-digger.’
‘I think she meant gold-digger.’
Jamie looked up at me, caught my eye and looked away again.
‘What’s a gold-digger?’
‘It’s a person who pretends to be somebody’s friend because they want the other person’s money.’
Jamie stared at me while he thought about this information.
‘No, I think Grandma did mean hole-digger,’ he said.
I tried to hide my smile but I wasn’t quick enough.
‘Grandma doesn’t think it’s funny,’ said Jamie.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Nor do I.’
Jamie fished the remote control from the carpet and turned up the volume on the television. He pulled his feet away from me.
I stood, stretched, switched on the light and drew the curtains. I wandered to the far end of the room and studied the spines of the books in the case. Amongst a plethora of Jilly Cooper novels, books on horse management and eventer biographies were a couple of Italian language dictionaries and guidebooks and a number of books on law. Framed photographs stood on top of the case. Most were of Jamie at various stages of development but in amongst them was a portrait of a woman. It had to be Genevieve. I picked it up and held it to the light.
She didn’t look as I had imagined her. She was smiling in that bashful way that the most attractive people do – as if they know how beautiful they are and are faintly apologetic about it. She was standing beside a railing in some foreign country; beyond, a range of slate-grey cliffs towered over a perfectly green sea. One slender hand rested on the railing and her face was turned towards the camera. Her hair, the silver-gold-buff colour of ripe wheat, was shoulder length, well cut. She wore a yellow vest-shirt, shorts, a wedding ring. Her shoulders were smooth and tanned. Her composure and grace reminded me of an old-fashioned celebrity but her look was contemporary. She had a heart-shaped, symmetrical face and dark eyes beneath long, dark lashes. She was beautiful; there was no denying it. Genevieve was lovely.
‘That’s
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