Past Secrets (3 page)

but young people don’t bother with that these

days.’

‘No, they don’t,’ agreed Christie easily, who

understood quite plainly that Una longed with all

her heart for her only child to be settled down

with a husband and children.

They’d gone on their separate ways, Christie

sure that Una had no notion of what she’d really

seen in Una’s heart.

Along with learning about her’ odd gift, Christie

had learned that mostly people didn’t want you

to know their deepest, darkest secrets. So she kept

her insights to herself unless she was asked.

Ten yards ahead of her, Amber Reid shot out

of her gate at number 18, long tawny-gold hair

bouncing in the telltale manner of the newly

washed. Amber was seventeen, in her final year at

St Ursula’s and undoubtedly one of the stars of

Christie’s class.

Amber could capture anyone or anything with

her pencil, although her particular gift was for

buttery oil landscapes, wild moody places with strange houses that looked like no houses on earth. Even in a large class, Amber stood out because she was so sparky and alive.

An unfashionable pocket Venus shape, with

softly curved limbs and a small, plumply rounded

face, her only truly beautiful feature was that

pair of magnetic pewter eyes, with the ring of

deepest amber around the pupils. She’d never have

been picked as one of the school’s beauties, the languorous leggy girls with chiselled cheekbones.

Yet Amber’s vivaciousness and the intelligence of

those eyes gave her an attractiveness that few of the teenage beauty queens could match. And the artist in Christie could see the girl’s sex appeal, an intangible charm that a photographer might not capture but an artist would.

Christie knew that unless St Ursula’s had been

evacuated for some strange reason that morning, Amber should be in school. And yet here she was, trip-trapping along in achingly high heels and a colourful flippy skirt that flowed out over her hips

unlike

the institutional grey school uniform skirt that jutted out in an unflattering A-line. Amber was holding a mobile phone to her ear and Christie

could just overhear.

‘I’m just leaving now. Has anyone noticed I’m not there? MacVitie’s not got her knickers in a twist over the absence of her best student?’

Mrs MacVitie was the maths teacher and

Christie doubted that Amber, who was typically

left-brained and hopeless at maths, was her best

student. Favourite, perhaps, because it was hard

to resist Amber, who always paid attention in class

and was a polite, diligent student. But not best.

She must be speaking to Ella O’Brien, to whom

she was joined at the hip, and Ella obviously told

her that no, the St Ursula’s bloodhounds had not

been alerted.

‘Sweet. If anyone asks, you think I was sick

yesterday and it must have got worse. I phoned

in earlier and told the school secretary I was sick

but, just in case, you back me up and say I’m

puking like mad. It’s true,’ Amber laughed. ‘I’m

sick of school, right?’

Christie wondered if Faye, Amber’s mother,

knew what her daughter was up to.

Faye Reid was a widow, a quiet, businesslike

figure who’d never missed a school meeting and

was utterly involved in her daughter’s life. Even

though they lived on the same street, Christie didn’t

see much of Faye. She kept herself to herself, head

down, rushing everywhere, clad in conservative

navy suits and low-heeled shoes, with a briefcase

by her side. There was such a contrast between

the, butterfly beauty of Amber who had the best

of everything and caught people’s eyes, and her

mother, who always appeared to be rushing to or

from work, trying hard to keep the mortgage paid

and food on the table. A person didn’t need

Christie’s gift of intuition to see that Faye’s life

had been one of sacrifices.

‘She’s one of the most gifted students I’ve ever

taught,’ Christie had told Faye two years before, shortly after Amber arrived in her class. ‘Any art college in the world would love to have her.’

And Faye’s face had lit up. Christie had never

seen a smile transform a person so much. Faye

was defiantly plain beside her daughter, overweight

to Amber’s curved sexiness and with her brown

hair pulled severely back into a knot that only

someone with the bones of a supermodel could

get away with. Faye Reid didn’t have the supermodel

bones. But when she smiled that rare smile,

she suddenly had all the charm of her daughter

and Christie caught herself wondering why a

woman like Faye, who could only be forty, lived

such a quiet life. No man had ever been seen kissing

Faye a wistful goodbye on the doorstep. Her

clothes, the discreet earrings and low shoes that

screamed comfort they

were like armour. It was

as if Faye had deliberately turned her back on

youthful sexiness and hidden behind a facade of

plain clothes.

Christie wondered if she could see more … but

suddenly, it was as if Faye Reid had abruptly closed

herself off and Christie could see nothing but the

woman in front of her.

‘Thanks, Mrs Devlin,’ Faye said. ‘That’s what

I think too, but I love her so much, I thought I

was totally biased. Every parent thinks their kid

is Mozart or Picasso, don’t they?’

‘Not all,’ replied Christie grimly, thinking of

some of the parents she’d met over the years with

no belief in their kids whatsoever.

Her comment apparently touched a chord with

Faye and the smile vanished to be replaced by her

more usual, sombre expression. ‘Yeah, you’re

right,’ she said, nodding. ‘There are always a few

who don’t appreciate their kids. Nothing that

twenty years of psychotherapy wouldn’t cure.’

Up ahead, Amber said a cheery ‘byee’ into her

phone. Christie knew that the correct teacher

response at this point would be to catch up with

her and ask what she was doing out of school.

But suddenly Amber broke into a run, high heels

notwithstanding, and was gone down the street

before Christie could move.

Christie shrugged. Amber was a good student,

hardly a serial absentee. She and Ella had never

been part of the school’s wilder cliques and had

both managed to move from adolescence to young

womanhood without any noticeable bursts of

rebellious behaviour.

There might be a perfectly good reason for her

absence today. And Christie herself knew that you

could learn plenty of things outside school as well

as in.

When she’d been young, she hadn’t done everything

by the book either.

Yet again, Christie thought about the past and

the places she’d lived. The house in Kilshandra

with bitterness and misery engrained into the wallpaper

so that she’d barely been able to wait till

she was old enough to leave. The bedsit on Dunville

Avenue where she’d met so many friends and

learned that she didn’t have to hide her gift. And

Summer Street, where all the best things in her life

had happened.

She could remember what the young Christie

had looked like when she’d moved to Summer

Street long

dark hair drawn back in a loose ponytail,

always in jeans and Tshirts and

she could

remember how lucky she’d been, with a kind husband, enough money so they weren’t in debt, with one beautiful, healthy child and another on

the way. Yes, the years on Summer Street were the

ones she liked to remember.

But there were other times she’d like to forget.

The strange feeling came through her again

and despite the warmth of the morning, Christie

shivered.

Amber Reid was concentrating so fiercely on getting to the bus stop in time that she hadn’t noticed Mrs Devlin walking along Summer Street behind her. This was despite her intention to watch out for anyone who might sneak to her mother about her appearance out of uniform on a school day.

‘We’re going on a field trip,’ Amber had planned to say blithely should the need arise, though the final-year students at St Ursula’s didn’t have time for field trips this close to the all-important state exams. And even if they did, what sort of field trip would require her best high heels Oxfam spindly sandals revitalised with bronze paint a sliver of a silk camisole and a flippy skirt, all topped off with the curious and fabulous silver tiger’s-eye pendant she’d recently found buried in her mother’s bottom drawer? The pendant was a mystery. She’d never seen her mum wear it. Faye dressed in boring suits and was resolutely against making the best of herself, no matter what Amber said. The pendant was so not ‘her’. Amber was still wondering where her mother had come by such a thing. She didn’t like to ask, because Mum would be hurt that she had been snooping. But it was odd of her to keep it hidden because they shared everything.

Well, not everything. Amber felt a splinter of guilt pierce her happy little cocoon. Today was a secret she couldn’t share with her mother. It wasn’t the first time she had concealed something. Mum was so square, so protective, that on the rare occasion that Amber had done anything outside her mother’s rigid code of what was acceptable, she’d had to fib a little. But the current secret was certainly the biggest.

Ella had phoned just as Amber slammed the front door behind her.

‘Ring me later and tell me how you got on, won’t you?’ Ella begged.

‘Promise.’

‘Wish I was bunking off,’ Ella grumbled. ‘I’ve history in ten minutes and I haven’t finished my bloody essay on the Civil War.’

‘Sorry, I did mine and I could have lent it to you so you could use some of my ideas,’ Amber apologised. She loved history and the words flowed effortlessly from her pen to the page. Although how she’d written her essay last night was largely a mystery, as she’d been consumed with excitement thinking about today.

When she’d said goodbye to Ella, she broke into

a run so as to race past the Summer Street Cafe in case of neighbours lurking within.

A minute later, she was at the bus stop on Jasmine Row, just in time to catch the 10.05 bus into the city, and Karl.

Karl. She whispered his name to herself as she gazed dreamily out of the windows on the top deck. Karl and Amber. Amber and Karl.

It sounded just right, like they were destined to be together.

Destiny had never been a concept Amber had held much faith in up to now. Just a few weeks away from her eighteenth birthday, and a month from the hated exams, she felt that she was in charge of her own life.

So she’d only been half paying attention when Ella read their horoscopes that fateful Friday at lunch. Horoscopes were fun but hardly to be relied on. Mum always insisted that Amber was responsible for herself and that life should not be lived on the word of what some astrologer had dreamed up for that day.

Mum was firm that Amber should never follow the crowd or do anything just because of someone else’s opinion or because ‘everyone else is doing it’. It was a lesson Amber had followed very well up to now.

‘Crap for Aries, as usual,’ muttered Ella, reading hers quickly. ‘“Rethink your options but don’t let your enthusiasm wane.” What does that mean?

Why doesn’t it ever give us hints on what’s coming

up in the maths paper? Now that would really be seeing the future.’

They were eating lunch on the gym roof strictly forbidden but the current cool spot for sixth years plotting

their weekend and how to fit exam study in around at least one trip to the shopping centre to flip through rails of clothes they couldn’t afford.

All study and no play made you go mad, Ella insisted.

‘Yours is better. “Single Taureans are going to find love and passion. Expect sparks to fly this weekend.”’

‘Sparks at the football club disco?’ Amber roared with laughter at the very ridiculousness of this idea. It was the same big gang of people she’d known all her life and you couldn’t get excited about a bunch of guys you’d watched grow up.

Where was the mystique or the romance of that?

‘Patrick?’

‘Too nice. He’d want to walk along with his hand in your jeans pocket and yours in his and discuss the engagement party. Gross.’

‘Greg’s cute.’

‘He called me Chubby Face once. No way.’

Growing three inches taller in the past year meant Amber had gone from being childishly plump to womanly and voluptuous. The addition of honeyed streaks in her rich brown hair meant that all the boys who’d previously talked to her like a clever younger sister suddenly sat up and took notice.

This new power over guys was heady and Amber

was still testing it, gently. But she wanted to go somewhere more exciting than the football club disco to do so. Somewhere, beyond the confines of Summer Street, the football club disco and St Ursula’s was Life with a capital L: pulsing, exciting, waiting for her.

‘You’re getting so choosy,’ said Ella. ‘You fancied Greg last year.’

‘That was last year.’

‘Should I get more highlights?’ asked Ella, pulling forward a bit of the long, streaky blonde hair that was almost mandatory in sixth year and examining it critically. ‘Your highlights look great but mine have gone all dull and yellowy.’

‘Use the special shampoo for blondes,’ said Amber.

‘It costs a fortune. I bet your mum buys it for you. Mine wouldn’t.’ Ella was indignant. Because there were only the two of them, Amber’s mum bought her everything she wanted, while Ella’s, with three older sons as well, could hardly do the same thing.