This Secret We're Keeping (2 page)

Jess
spent her afternoon and early evening in the confines of a vastly complex, digitally ticketed queueing system at A & E, where the doctor’s eventual offhand diagnosis of bruising felt strangely anticlimactic after the initial promise of all the high-tech crowd management. The whole experience led her to crave alcohol in a way she knew should never be combined with painkillers, but she called her oldest friend, Anna, anyway, imparting just enough information to give her chest pains and suggesting they meet for a bottle of Merlot and some calm, objective analysis of the day’s events. Anna got things off to a promising start by swearing loudly down the phone for a few seconds and then bursting into tears on Jess’s behalf.

The village’s delicatessen-cum-wine-bar, Carafe, was their favoured haunt. Run by Philippe, an expat from Bordeaux with a genetically faultless palate and a nose for an interesting cheese, the converted barn was a beautiful jumble of upturned oak barrels, chatter, clatter, and the mournful strain of Léo Marjane songs grinding away in the background.

When it started out, Carafe had been unexpectedly successful in recreating the ambience of rural France in semi-suburban England, but that was before the
Guardian
did a big reveal in an ironically titled
Hidden Norfolk
supplement and the place became overrun with quilted gilets and second-homeowners clamouring for New World wines, better lighting and a broader variety of E-numbers on the food menu. Only last week Jess had listened, fist in mouth,
to a hysterical mother demanding orange squash, fish fingers and spaghetti hoops for her three (equally hysterical) under-fives.

Tonight, the place was full. It was warm and steamy inside and out, like something was brewing. Philippe had thrown all the windows open, letting in the close heat of the evening and the faint sound of rehearsing bell-ringers. Even more thoughtfully, he’d reserved a table in the window for Jess and Anna, topping it off with a Saint-Émilion claret and a plate of Carafe’s best Camembert.

Jess made slow progress through the bar, exchanging pleasantries with neighbours and acquaintances as if she hadn’t just had the strangest day of her life. On reaching their table she took a seat and poured the wine, allowing her gaze to drift to the courtyard outside and her mind to journey back to the driver of the car crouching next to her in the gravel only a few hours earlier. The expression on his face had been one of bewildered defeat, like he’d just received an unexpected knee to the groin from somebody six inches taller than him, his unspoken anguish a painful reminder of the last time they had met. It made her heart flinch even thinking about it.

Swallowing the thought away with the aid of the wine, she helped herself to some Camembert. She really should do more with soft cheese, she thought, as its stickiness clung to her fingers. She’d read somewhere that it was a winner paired with raspberries and black pepper.

And then, like always, there was Anna, raising a hand to Philippe as she elbowed her way through the crowd spilling out from the bar. Joining Jess at their table, she wordlessly took up her wine glass, like the weight of its full bowl against her palm offered a grade of reassurance that the medium of speech, for the moment, could not.

She looked beautiful tonight, Jess thought, with her kinks of dark hair tumbling softly down in tendrils, skin slightly flushed from the power walk and possibly the prospect of alcohol. Anna had been trying for the past year to conceive, so she wasn’t really supposed to be drinking, but she generally made exceptions for significant occasions, such as weddings, birthdays and unforeseen road-traffic accidents.

‘So, your hit-and-run …’ Anna began, and then waited, presumably for Jess to explain how she was not half in plaster and getting her oxygen from a pump.

So far, Anna only knew what Jess had told her over the phone, which was that a car had driven into her leg but no real harm had been done. She had stopped well short of revealing the driver’s identity. That sort of news could only be delivered face-to-face.

‘It wasn’t exactly a hit-and-run,’ Jess said carefully. ‘As in … he hit, but he didn’t run.’

‘Probably because you were wedged underneath his front bumper at the time,’ Anna suggested, before softening slightly and taking Jess’s hand. ‘Jesus, Jess. Are you sure you’re okay?’

In the hours since the accident and arriving at Carafe, Jess’s leg had turned a surprisingly violent shade of purple and had started to gently pulsate like something slowly dying – but she’d been moderately reassured by her clear results from X-ray and the remarkable indifference of the consultant, who had popped his head round the curtain to diagnose soft-tissue bruising before promptly disappearing again. The extent of his advice had been to go home and self-medicate – by which he’d obviously meant it was nothing a fistful of painkillers and a glass or two of wine couldn’t fix.

‘I think so,’ she said, nodding slowly. ‘I mean, it’s sore, but it could have been a lot worse.’

‘Well, he must have been speeding,’ Anna decided, her face so furrowed up with concern that Jess wanted to reach over and smooth it all out for her.

Jess shook her head, thinking it might be wise to start by pleading mitigating circumstances on the driver’s behalf. ‘No, it was completely my fault. I ran out in front of the car.’

‘Really? Why?’ Anna looked sceptical – which was reasonable enough, given that Jess, like most people, was normally sufficiently level-headed not to jump voluntarily in front of moving traffic.

As Jess fumbled for the right way to break the news, Anna’s predisposition towards logical analysis began to system-overload with a flurry of diagnostic questions.

‘What sort of car was he driving?’

‘An expensive one.’

‘Was he old? Like, too old to be driving?’

‘No.’

‘Too young?’

‘No, no.’ She thought about it. ‘Middling.’

‘Any passengers?’

Jess nodded. ‘Two.’

‘What about his registration?’

‘The stewards got it.’

‘Are you going to press charges?’

‘No,’ Jess said quickly, frowning. ‘It’s just bruising.’

But the two of them had been friends for so long now that they both knew this agitated probing to barely be necessary. All Anna really needed to do was lean back in her chair and look Jess in the eye – so she did. ‘Okay. Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me, Jess?’

Jess swilled the Merlot gently around the bottom of her
glass, admiring its viscosity, watching the wine legs appear. For so many years she had thought that ‘wine legs’ was just another term for pissed (it was Philippe who had eventually, discreetly, put her straight – possibly to prevent Jess from further embarrassment at his distinctly well-to-do wine-tasting evenings).

Jess exhaled sharply and met Anna’s eye. ‘This has to stay between you and me.’

Fortunately, Carafe wasn’t the sort of place where people paid too much attention to neighbouring tables – but Jess leaned in anyway, letting her blonde hair create a little screen over one side of her face, as if it would somehow help her to get the words out.

‘It was Matthew. Matthew Landley was driving the car.’

‘Oh my God.’ Anna put a hand across her mouth and they sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the bar washing over them like water over someone drowning.

After a couple of seconds, Anna seemed to remember how to breathe, though she was still gripping the edge of the table with one hand like she was afraid it might be about to take off. ‘But it was … it
was
an accident?’

‘Yes … sort of. I mean, it was my fault. I ran out … I was trying to stop him.’

Anna stared at her. ‘What?’

‘I panicked.’

Anna failed to blink. ‘About what?’

Given that she was neither police officer, security guard nor stuntwoman, Jess could see that flagging down traffic by throwing herself in front of it was always going to be tough to justify. ‘He was driving away,’ she said lamely. ‘I wanted to stop him.’

‘Enough to kill yourself?’

Jess swigged away the reality of the risk she’d taken with
some more wine. ‘It wasn’t like that. I didn’t even think it through. There was no time – I just … stepped out.’

‘How many people saw?’

‘Too many,’ Jess said, feeling a small twist of dread in her stomach. ‘And he was with a woman and a little girl. I mean, his wife. He was with his wife and daughter.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

Ordinarily, a man in his forties being married with a daughter could hardly be described as breaking news.
Well, tonight it is
, Jess thought darkly, taking another long swig from her glass.

‘And he definitely recognized you?’

Jess tilted her head at Anna like,
Come on
.

‘Sorry,’ Anna said quickly, pausing to remove temptation by sloshing the remainder of the wine from the bottle into Jess’s glass with the sort of vigour that implied she would have quite liked to be necking it herself.

‘So what did he say, Jess? When he saw it was you, I mean.’

‘Not much. Hardly anything. There were people around … we were both in shock.’ She hesitated. ‘But – his wife kept calling him Will.’

A flicker of confusion crossed Anna’s face before she caught on. ‘He changed his name,’ she breathed. ‘So that’s how he managed to disappear off the face of the planet.’

‘Makes sense,’ Jess mumbled through another mouthful of ripe cheese, deciding to keep to herself for the time being her immense relief on having seen first-hand that Matthew Landley wasn’t dead.

Anna paused. Her thoughts seemed to be cascading so quickly that Jess wouldn’t have been surprised to see her head begin to vibrate. ‘Maybe it wasn’t an accident.’

‘No, it definitely was. I saw the car, and I –’

Anna shook her head and leaned forward. ‘No, I mean, him being there in the first place. You said yourself you’ve been seeing him everywhere. Maybe you were right. Maybe he’s been following you.’

Choosing not to challenge Anna over this rather interesting departure from her previous assertions that Jess simply needed to swap alcohol for tap water and insomnia for a good night’s sleep, she just shrugged, all out of ideas. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t
know
.’

Anna frowned. ‘Okay. Okay.’ Unlike Jess, Anna had been an excellent mathematician at school, and she generally dealt with problems by trying to out-logic them. ‘Let’s look at the facts. Even if he has been stalking you, I doubt he’ll carry on now. Not if the police are involved.’

Jess swallowed. ‘But I need to talk to him, Anna.’

Anna leaned forward so that Jess couldn’t ignore what she was about to say, her voice gently insistent. ‘There’s nothing either of you need to talk about. Seriously – there’s no words for what went on. It’s best for both of you if you never have contact again.’

Jess didn’t voice agreement but she didn’t protest either.

‘You know I’m right, Jess,’ Anna pressed softly.

Even as their eyes met, Jess couldn’t respond.

‘So what’s his wife like?’ Anna asked, after a brief silence.

Jess was surprised to find she could recall details she didn’t remember registering at the time, and struggled for a moment to articulate what they all represented in her mind. Silver statement jewellery. Glossy chestnut hair, spirit-level straight, and an excellent fringe. Gym-honed, with enviable muscle tone. The kind of implied authority that commanded careful handling.

‘Not his type,’ she informed Anna eventually.

‘You don’t know what his type is.’

‘I know she’s not it,’ Jess replied, a little too briskly.

‘Do you think she realized who you were?’

Jess shook her head. ‘I don’t see how she could have done. She just stood next to the car bellowing at him. I think she was a bit worried about the paintwork.’

‘This is Fucked Up,’ Anna declared, like it needed saying.

As Anna finished her glass and Jess the rest of the bottle, their conversation eventually moved on to braking distances, the intricacies of Anna’s online ovulation calendar, and the merits – or otherwise – of veganism (polishing off the Camembert, Jess was not altogether surprised to find herself coming down firmly on the side of foodstuffs-deemed-more-likely-to-give-one-a-heart-attack).

The Merlot was gone by the time Philippe arrived at her shoulder a short while later, bearing two toasting flutes and a bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne in a bucket. ‘From the gentleman near the bar,’ he declared with a soft smile, raising an eyebrow. He unfolded a stand from beneath his arm and set the bucket in it.

Jess whipped round and straight away through the crowd locked eyes with Dr Zak Foster. She’d had no idea he was even in Norfolk.

He simply looked back at her, motionless, waiting.

Tonight was the one-year anniversary of their first meeting beneath the portico of the temple in Holkham park woods, where they’d been strangers at the wedding of a mutual friend. Zak had been enthralling a small audience with a medical story when she’d first encountered him, but of course it was the sort of anecdote she couldn’t hope to start following halfway through after two glasses of wine. So instead of guffawing along with the others Jess found herself scuffing around behind a pillar like some sort of
tragic walk-on part in an outdoor production of
Othello
, listening to him talk and wondering if he was perhaps famous, or at least related to someone who was. He had that air about him, somehow – or maybe it was just because he was devastatingly handsome and by far the most captivating of all the guests in attendance. She didn’t normally go for men who attracted attention in that way, and for this reason alone, she knew he had the potential to be definitively Not Suitable. But by then, of course, he’d spotted her drunkenly gazing at him and – understandably perhaps – interpreted it as a massive come-on.

They’d ended up kissing on the temple steps at midnight, fireworks exploding in the background, and Jess remembered smiling inside at the time and thinking,
This is pretty perfect
. She still bore the scar from the burn she had acquired in the small of her back just a couple of hours later from a particularly rough patch of oak bark.