Past Secrets (20 page)

‘How’s Amber?’ asked Josie, making quick work of tidying up her kitchen.

‘Fine,’ Faye said.

Her mother said nothing but looked at Faye inquisitively.

‘All right, she’s not fine,’ Faye gave in. Her mother would get the information out of her anyway. She might as well explain that Amber had been avoiding her since Thursday, using the excuse of studying to rush upstairs any time Faye tried to talk to her. ‘She’s moody and she wants to eat her dinner on her own instead of with me.’

Josie nodded.

‘She shouted at me for going into her room the other night too, because I thought she was having a nightmare.’ Faye could barely cope with how much it had hurt when Amber had sat up in bed and shouted at her, hissing that she needed some privacy. Faye was used to wandering into Amber’s room any time, to chat to her daughter. Now she felt that she couldn’t do that, either. ‘She’s cutting me off.’

‘And you can see how it hurts,’ finished Josie softly.

Shocked, Faye looked into her mother’s face and saw remembered pain there. Nearly two decades ago, she’d caused Josie exactly the same hurt Amber was causing her, she realised. Yet her mother had never for a second betrayed how wounded she’d been. There had been no recriminations.

Nothing but help when she’d needed it. Her mother was extraordinary, Faye realised, not for the first time.

‘Is it a man?,

‘She’s not that into boys,’ Faye said. ‘You know what she and Ella are like: they run rings around Ella’s brothers and they’re dead set on getting into college. Modern girls are different, they’re sorted, they know what they want and they won’t let anyone or any man stop them.’

‘If you’re sure …’ The rest of the sentence hung in the air.

‘I’m sure,’ Faye said. She’d know, wouldn’t she? ‘Where is she today?’

‘Off at Ella’s, studying. It’s these bloody exams,’

Faye went on. ‘That’s the problem. When they’re over, everything will be fine again.’

‘For sure,’ said Josie. ‘Myself and Stan were going to take the train out to Howth for a bit of lunch. Would you like to come?’

Faye smiled. ‘I’d love to,’ she said. After all, it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do without Amber.

Sunshine, beautiful food and all the people she loved most in the world together - what could be better than that? thought Christie.

It was the Sunday of the celebration, the day the Devlin family celebrated the new life they’d nearly lost. Christie stood in her kitchen and thought of dear Lenkya’s pronouncement on how you could kill or cure in the kitchen as she got ready to carry trays of food outside to the garden where her family sat, some in the full sun, some in the, shade of the terrace. Dear Lenkya. She’d left Ireland many years ago and although they’d kept in touch for a long time, there came a point

when her letters stopped and Christie’s ones were never replied to. Christie hoped she was happy wherever she was.

Today, in the same way Lenkya had woven comfort and friendship in her stews, Christie had put all her wisdom and love into her cooking to nourish her family every way she could. She wished and prayed happiness into every recipe, hoping that the ferocity of her love would provide a talisman for her sons, their wives and her born and unborn grandchildren.

And hoping that this love could keep the feelings of danger away.

But no, Christie refused to think about Carey Wolensky. That man would not ruin today. This Sunday was for her family, a day of love, celebration and food.

There were tender chicken kebabs and bowls of chilled salad heaving with avocado, cherry tomatoes and honeydew melon. Baked potatoes laced with sour cream and chives sat with a dish of grilled rosemary-scented slivers of lamb, and Christie’s own sliced tomato and fennel bread nestled in a basket with crusty white rolls.

‘Are you cooking for the apocalypse?’ James had teased the evening before when Christie missed her favourite TV show because she was up to her eyes in flour, -baking, measuring and peering into the oven to see if the honey and poppy-seed cake had risen. ‘I haven’t ordered the nuclear shelter for the garden yet, but I can if you want. Although most people take cans of food with them …’

‘I cook therefore I am,’ Christie said serenely, spooning mixture into muffin cases.

Which was true. Cooking was therapy for her as well as an expression of love for her family and right now, she needed that spiritual nourishment.

James’s hand snaked out towards the mixing bowl.

Christie laughed and let him take one finger’s worth of dough, before slapping his hand away. ‘People who tease me don’t get fed,’ she said. ‘Are you making guacamole for me?’ he asked, eyeing the avocados. James loved food and would eat most things, but his love for guacamole was legend in the Devlin family annals.

‘Have I ever forgotten to make it for you?’

Christie patted his cheek with a floury hand and went on with her spooning.

‘No,’ said James and put his arms around his wife for a kiss.

Who’d have thought guacamole would be the secret to love, Christie thought, closing her eyes and leaning back into his arms: on such strange things were marriages made.

‘Mum, this is delicious,’ sighed Ethan, sitting back in a striped deckchair, the dogs at his feet and a plate piled high on his lap.

‘Yes,’ murmured Janet, who was paler than usual, but had a light in her eyes that Christie had never seen there before. ‘I like this eating for two thing.’

‘It really kicks in at dessert,’ Ethan’s wife, Shelly, informed her sister-in-law. ‘You don’t think you can eat two entire pieces of cheesecake or two wedges of chocolate cake, but you can.’

Ethan and Shane, well trained by their mother, helped her tidy up so she could bring the desserts out.

‘Thanks,’ Shane said, kissing her affectionately on the cheek. ‘This is a lovely party.’

It was getting so hot that the dogs came in to lie on the kitchen floor, panting in the heat.

James carried in the last of the buffet plates and stacked them in the dishwasher.

‘I don’t know if it’s the wine talking, but today has made me think. We’re very lucky, Christie, aren’t we?’ he said as he straightened up. ‘We’ve got everything, a healthy family, each other, a few quid in the bank.’

‘Hey, don’t you think I know it?’ replied Christie, smiling at her husband. She’d had a glass of wine too and finally felt the tension leave her. She must stop thinking about Carey Wolensky. After all, how could something from so long ago touch her now?

‘I thank God every day for what we’ve got.’

From outside in the garden came the sounds of their family enjoying themselves. Sasha was shrieking as she chased around after balloons that Christie really hoped wouldn’t get caught on the spiky thorns of her Madame Pompadour, Christie didn’t have to look out to know that Shane would be beaming from ear to ear, the proud look of the daddy to be. He’d had that look on his face all day and Christie could remember when James looked exactly the same. The pride of the family man.

‘I say thanks every day too,’ said James. ‘But, you know,’ he paused, ‘do you ever worry that something will happen? That one of us will become ill, something random, something we can’t do anything about.’

Christie stared at him. James was never maudlin, not even after a glass of wine. Instantly, she wondered what he knew, how he’d found out. Yet he couldn’t know anything, could he?

‘What do you mean?’ she asked tightly.

‘No, no, it’s nothing,’ James said. ‘It’s just …

I don’t know. It all seems so good. Sometimes I worry that it could all go horribly wrong and we could end up bitter and twisted.’

Christie’s anxious eyes looked for some sign that he knew, but there was none. Perhaps it was just that her feeling spooked had transmitted itself to him.

‘Is that all?’ she said with relief. ‘You’re the least bitter and twisted person I know. Just because we’re happy doesn’t mean something has to come along and ruin it all.’

.thing.’ James brushed his melancholy

‘You’re too old for the male menopause,’

Christie teased. ‘That was supposed to happen ages ago, when I went through mine. I didn’t do too badly, I didn’t run off with some handsome young stud.’

‘If you had, I’d have bloody killed them,’ James said, suddenly serious.

‘Lucky no one fitted the job description at the time,’ she teased, but felt sick inside. Why had she said that? How stupid. ‘Seriously, you’re safe enough, my love. What would I want with a young stud, when I have you?’ Christie put her arms around James, and they kissed, sinking into an embrace that was familiar and reassuring, except that today Christie didn’t feel reassured.

‘OK, back to basics,’ she said, leaning against him. ‘What are we going to do, financially, for Shane and Janet? We’ve got to do something.

They’re totally broke and they have no idea how expensive babies are.’

‘I was thinking about that too,’ James said. ‘We’ve got some savings. What are we keeping them for?’

Christie kissed him. ‘You’re a great father,’ she said, thinking of how hard it had been to save that money.

‘What are you two looking so thoughtful about?’

said a voice. It was Ana wandering in with another empty wine bottle. ‘This is a celebratory day,’ she added a touch too merrily. ‘We should be happy, celebrating.’

‘We’re just having a chat,’ Christie said lightly. ‘James, will you get another bottle out of the fridge and I’ll sort out the cake? Ana, you could take out these little fairy cakes I’ve made for the children.’

She’d spent ages doing them the night before: pretty-coloured iced cakes with little animal faces

to tempt the toddlers’ appetites.

‘Delighted to help,’ said Ana, slurring her words slightly.

Over her head, James and Christie exchanged a glance. Ana had never been used to drinking and after two glasses really needed to lie down in a darkened corner.

‘Come on, Ana,’ James said, putting his arm around his sister-in-law affectionately. ‘I’ll take the plate.’

Christie was left alone in the kitchen to sort out the cake. Looking out the window, she could see Ethan cuddling little Sasha. Shelly and Janet were engrossed in baby talk, while Janet’s mother, Margery, threw a balloon up into the air for Fifi.

James was smiling as he helped a giggling Ana to a comfy chair.

Christie watched her family and wished she could see the future when it mattered.

James was right, they had been lucky. But it was more than luck that had made their marriage so strong over the years. You didn’t spend thirty-five years with somebody without wanting to kill them occasionally. Or even leave them.

There had been that time when the children

were very young and she and James had drifted far apart, when work had taken over his life and Christie had been low on his list of priorities, but they’d got over that. Eventually.

They’d worked hard to get over their differences.

There hadn’t been many big rows in the Devlin family household. Having grown up with nervous tension as a constant backdrop, Christie hated rows. Her father’s rantings had been enough to put her off arguments for life. James was easygoing and affectionate and had brought their children up to be the same. So yes, there had been hard work involved. All the same, they were lucky, Why was James suddenly worried that their luck was about to turn? Christie shivered despite the heat.

It was Sunday evening, one of the most important evenings ever for Karl and the band. Amber had escaped from Summer Street by telling her mother she was going to be studying late and not to bother her.

She’d left the radio on low in her room, closed the door, and hoped her mother had listened the night Amber had made her point about deserving a little privacy. That privacy meant keeping her mother away from her room so she could escape out to Karl. It also meant huge guilt over the deception.

Now,

despite the two giant Southern Comforts Karl had bought her, Amber’s mouth was dry and her heart was thudding. She prickled with nerves.

She’d found the perfect position at the right side of the SnakePit stage, behind a giant light where there was a small box she could sit on and see perfectly, yet remain out of sight.

Huge cables trailed around her feet. The stage

and backstage were both hives of activity as muscle.

bound guys with tattooed biceps shifted amps and equipment, shouting to each other as they worked.

Two men with radio headsets directed the backstage dance, snapping out directions, ticking off on clipboard lists. Everyone backstage at the venue appeared to have a role, from the various promoters’ staff rushing round with laminates rattling off their chests to the bands themselves, cocooned in their dressing rooms to get ready.

‘Give us a moment, kid?’ Karl’s newly appointed manager, Stevie, had said to Amber in the band’s poky little room fifteen minutes previously. Before she’d been able to throw a questioning look at Karl to say how dare the man dismiss her like that, Stevie had hustled her out into the dimly lit corridor right behind the stage. Here, nobody seemed to know or care that she was Karl Evans’s girlfriend and muse. Here, she was a blonde in jeans in a place that had seen a lot of blondes in jeans who were with the band. Amber had felt she might cry. This Sunday evening event was so important for Karl and, therefore, for her. A big showcase gig that horrible Stevie had got for them.

Producers, heads of record companies, everyone who was anyone was going to be there to see the hot new bands. It was huge, but Amber, who felt she was irrevocably tied up with Karl and his future, had been sidelined.

Anxiously, she fiddled with the tiger’s-eye pendant she’d found in her mother’s drawer and which she wore on many of her trips with Karl.

It had always comforted her before, making her think of Mum and home, where she was safe, treasured, much more than a hanger-on.

But since the terrible row on Thursday evening, when Mum had given her that stupid present, nothing had given her much comfort.