The secrets she keeps, p.31
The Secrets She Keeps, page 31
The headline screams: I DIDN’T STEAL BABY BEN.
And the one below it: But I’m in love with his dad.
Jack tries to close the pages. I put down my hand and push him away, reading the opening paragraphs.
A London estate agent has denied any involvement in the abduction of Baby Ben Shaughnessy, but admitted to having an affair with his father, well-known sports presenter Jack Shaughnessy.
Rhea Bowden claims she and Jack “shook the house down” when they had sex in dozens of different properties she was selling in South London. Those houses include the one in Barnes that she sold to Jack and Meghan Shaughnessy last December, three months before she and Jack began their affair.
Jack is trying to force my fingers off the page. “Please, Megs,” he says, his voice thick with . . . what . . . ? Guilt? Shame? Remorse?
I keep reading.
“We bumped into each other at a trivia night at a local pub, the Sun Inn, and Jack offered to buy me a drink. He bought a bottle of champagne,” Rhea Bowden told the Daily Mirror.
“We flirted and laughed and were both pretty drunk by the second bottle. We finished up kissing in a doorway and making love in my office. I knew he was married, of course, but I didn’t realize his wife was pregnant.
“After that, Jack would call me when he had an afternoon off. We’d either meet at my place or go to one of the houses I was showing. I know it was wrong, but whatever people think or say about me, I didn’t take Baby Ben. I love Jack. I would never harm his family.”
The newspaper rips as Jack wrenches it away from beneath my balled fists. My eyes are swimming but I refuse to cry. I look at the other front pages. They all have the same story, writ large in bold headlines. I picture the entire country sniggering over their cornflakes or muesli, gossiping around the photocopier, or over garden fences, or at checkouts. We are no longer that poor family who lost a child. We are tabloid fodder. We are a soap opera. Jack hasn’t just cheated on me, he has humiliated me; he has made a mockery of our marriage and every statement we’ve made about being a loving family. We don’t deserve sympathy. We don’t deserve to get Ben back.
I go upstairs. Jack tries to follow. MacAteer stops him. He has questions to answer.
“Can’t it wait?” asks Jack, pleading with him.
“No.”
I pull an overnight bag from the cupboard and randomly fill it with clothes. I get dressed. I zip up my boots. I walk downstairs, out the front door, along the path. My keys fall out of my hand. I bend to pick them up. The circus is all around me—the cameras and reporters—shouting questions.
“Did you know about the affair?” someone yells.
“Are you leaving him?” asks another.
I can’t answer. I lock the car doors and push the ignition, sideswiping a police car and shattering the side mirror as I pull away. I don’t care. I’ll run them all down. They can lock me up and throw away the key, as long as they leave me alone.
AGATHA
* * *
My little boy is dying. I have known it for days, but have told myself that he’ll bounce back and grow stronger. Yes, he’s struggling, but all babies feel poorly sometimes. They go off their food, or run a temperature, or cry for no reason.
I have never feared anything for myself, not since I was a child, but I fear for Rory. What if I cannot protect him the way he should have been protected? What if I fail?
Last night I fell asleep next to his Moses basket. Waking stiff and cold, I reached out and touched Rory’s forehead. His tiny body was radiating heat. I wiped him down. I gave him medicine. I waited until he fell asleep before I shook uncontrollably, knowing it was happening again. I am losing someone I love. He is fading away, disappearing by degrees, ounce by ounce.
I come awake. It’s light outside. I’m alone in bed. Hayden must have risen earlier and left me sleeping. I go to Rory’s bed. His body is so pale and bloodless I catch my breath. Terrified, I extend my hand and brush my fingers over his chest. His lungs fill. His heart beats. He lives. Just.
The fever is still gripping him. I give him paracetamol and wipe him down. I let him hold my finger in his fist as I try to breathe for him, inhaling and exhaling.
He’s dying.
Not yet.
He needs a doctor.
I can’t.
Shrugging off my nightdress, I open my wardrobe and notice something different. My clothes have been moved—pushed aside at each end, exposing the rear shelves. The middle one has a blue box made of coated metal with a hinged lid and padlock. It contains a few scant mementos from the past—the bits worth keeping: a second-place prize certificate for handwriting, a spelling trophy, my birth certificate, an out-of-date passport, a handful of wedding photographs, and a strip of photo-booth prints showing me at age sixteen, sitting on the lap of a boy I liked, whose name I can’t remember.
The box is facing the wrong way. I look more closely and notice scratch marks in the paint where the hinges have been unscrewed and reattached.
I carry the box to the kitchen, where Hayden is eating a bowl of cereal.
“Have you been going through my stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“My box.”
“Why would I do that?”
“That box is private.”
“Why?”
“It just is.”
“I don’t like secrets.”
“It’s not secret, it’s private. Don’t you trust me?”
“You lied about being married, about your mother, about giving your coat to charity. You even lied about your age.” He points to the box. “I saw your birth certificate. You told me you were twenty-nine. You’re thirty-eight.”
“A woman is allowed to lie about her age,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.
Hayden’s face is blank. He doesn’t find me funny anymore.
“I called that number you gave me for the midwife. It was a recorded message. She’s away until January.”
“That’s not my fault.”
I feel relieved but don’t let it show. It took me a day to think up that plan—buying a SIM card and recording a message using a voice-disguising app: “You have called the voicemail of Belinda Wallace of the Yorkshire Home Birth Service. I am out of the office until January seventh. Have a wonderful Christmas and New Year.”
Hayden hasn’t finished. “So I called your doctor—I found his number in your phone—but he didn’t know you were pregnant.”
“I stopped using him. Jules helped me register with her GP.”
“Right, that explains everything,” he says cynically.
I pretend he’s joking. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“I’m not sure yet,” says Hayden, softening a little. “I want to believe you, Aggy, but I’m frightened of what you might have done . . . and who you’ve hurt.”
Standing barefoot on the floorboards, I begin to shake and I swallow a coppery taste that could be blood. Every sound is amplified. I hear the soft swish of traffic on the wet road outside and a District line train pulling into Putney Bridge station.
I glance around the kitchen at the teapot and the breakfast cereal and the milky bowl on the pine table. I have to tell him. I have to beg him to forgive me. We both love Rory. Neither of us wants to lose him. It can be our secret.
I begin talking but my mind doesn’t work because I’ve barely slept. What if he disagrees? What if he calls the police?
“I’m worried about Rory,” I say. “He’s not feeding. He’s hardly had anything since yesterday.”
Hayden doesn’t hesitate. His questions can wait. He goes to the bedroom, where Rory is lying on our bed, wedged between two pillows. His legs are forced apart by the size of his nappy and his weight loss looks even more severe.
Hayden touches his forehead. “He’s on fire.”
“But feel his hands and feet—they’re cold.”
“Wake up, baby,” he says, gently shaking Rory. His eyes flicker.
Hayden picks him up. Rory sags in his hands, his head rolling to one side.
“He’s gone all floppy.”
“He’s just tired.”
“No. He needs a doctor.”
“Or I could give him some more Calpol.”
“How much did he have to eat yesterday?”
“I give him what he wants. Sometimes he falls asleep before he finishes.”
“What’s the name of your new GP?”
“Let’s wait a little longer.”
“No, I want you to call the doctor.”
My mobile is on the kitchen table. I scroll through the contacts list and pretend to call a number.
“Is that Dr. Kneeble’s surgery?” I say, talking to nobody. “This is Agatha Fyfle . . . Yes, that’s right. Merry Christmas to you too. I had the baby a few weeks ago and he’s running a temperature.”
Hayden whispers loudly, “Tell him it’s serious.”
I cover the phone. “I’m talking to his receptionist.”
“You’re making it sound like nothing.”
I go back to the fake call. “He’s off his food and slept badly. Yes, I’ve done that . . . every four hours . . . I see. So you have nothing until then? OK. Put him down. His name is Rory Fyfle, no, I mean, Rory Cole. He’s sixteen days old.”
“When?” asks Hayden, as I hang up.
“Tomorrow.”
“What!”
“It’s the first available.”
“That’s too long.”
Hayden picks up his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Mum. She’ll know what to do.”
“No. He’ll be fine.” I grab at his arm. He shrugs me away.
“I don’t care what you’ve done, Aggy, but Rory is sick. We’re not going to wait.”
Ten minutes later we’re dressing Rory in socks, mittens, and a woollen hat. Mrs. Cole called her GP and managed to get us an appointment. I know the risks, but Hayden refuses to do nothing. He carries the pram downstairs and pushes it ahead of me.
“Come on, come on.”
“I’m hurrying.”
The doctor’s surgery is in Brent Cross on the Northern line. We have to catch three different trains to get there. As we wait on the platform, I keep checking Rory, praying for him to spark up or cry or do something energetic. Instead he looks sluggish and barely conscious. I offer him a sip of boiled water in a bottle, but it dribbles down his chin.
I have to prepare myself. I have to be confident. The doctor is going to ask questions. I need to have the answers tripping off my tongue as though everything is normal. I’m a new mother with a sick baby. Breathe. Relax. I can do this.
Mrs. Cole fusses over Rory when we arrive at the surgery. Her whole demeanor changes around him. She lights up. Having a grandchild seems to have given her energy and dynamism, as though she’s fulfilling her destiny.
The waiting room looks like a United Colors of Benetton advertisement. Indians. Pakistanis. Africans. An Ethiopian woman has a toddler clinging to her colorful dress. She can’t speak English. I envy her. I wish I could pretend to be foreign and not understand the questions.
I’m asked to fill out a form detailing my medical history.
“Where was Rory born?” the receptionist asks.
“In Leeds.”
“Did you bring along his personal health record?”
“I left it at home. Sorry.”
“What’s the name of your home health aide?”
I make up a name.
“Is her number in your phone?”
“No, she gave me her card. I stuck it on the fridge. I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful. I can’t think straight at the moment.” I summon tears. The receptionist tells me not to worry. We can complete the form later.
“Are you breast-feeding?” she asks.
“I did for a while, but I struggled.”
“But you’re still lactating?”
“Ah, yes.”
“What was Rory’s birth weight?”
“Six pounds and three ounces.”
“Was it a vaginal delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Any problems?”
“No.”
Each new lie seems to wrap me in another cable that gets tighter around my chest. The creature inside me twists and turns, calling me names, hissing at me to run.
I go back to my chair and wait. Ten minutes later we’re summoned inside.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell Mrs. Cole, but it sounds ungrateful. “I mean—I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy.”
“I’m not busy,” she says. “I’ve brought my knitting.” She holds up a tiny half-finished cardigan threaded on her needles.
Dr. Schur is in his sixties with a full head of gray hair sculpted into a wave that looks almost aerodynamic. He’s particularly pleased to see Hayden.
“The amount of times I stitched you up, I didn’t think you’d survive this long,” he says, laughing.
“Put the little fellow up here,” he says, pointing to the examination table. “And get him undressed.”
For the next few minutes he says nothing as he does the usual checks—eyes, ears, nose, heart, and lungs. He takes each of Rory’s little limbs and bends them back and forth. He rotates his hips. He looks in his mouth. He feels his skull.
“He’s very dehydrated. Has he been vomiting?”
“No. I’ve been giving him boiled water.”
“Are you breast-feeding?”
“Not all the time. My home health aide told me I should put him on the bottle for a few days and he seemed to take to it.”
“But you’re still lactating?”
I half nod.
“We have a nurse here who is very good with breast-feeding problems, but I’m more concerned about his weight and his persistent fever.”
“I’ve been giving him paracetamol,” I say.
“For how long?” asks Dr. Schur.
“Since yesterday morning . . . every four hours.”
The doctor continues to examine Rory, turning his arms and legs, looking at his elbows and behind his knees.
“Purely as a precaution, I want you to take Rory to hospital,” he says.
“Why?” I hear the panic in my voice.
“It’s extremely unlikely, but I tend to err on the side of caution.”
“What’s unlikely?” asks Hayden.
“Meningitis is very rare, particularly in babies who are only a few weeks old, but he does have a fever and a rash on the inside of his right thigh, which are some of the symptoms. I want to start him on broad-spectrum antibiotics immediately—just in case—but the hospital can test him properly. I’ll phone ahead. You won’t have to wait.”
Dr. Schur goes to his desk and types on his computer, humming to himself. He unlocks a cabinet and takes out several sealed packets of medicine, making a note of the serial numbers. He administers the first dose to Rory.
“You can get him dressed,” he says to Hayden before turning to me.
“Now you, young lady, how about I check you out?”
I step away. “No!”
“I want to make sure your uterus has shrunk back into your pelvis.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you getting any contractions or after-pains?”
“No.”
Hayden has stopped dressing Rory and is staring at me.
“Just pop off your trousers and sit up on the table. It will only take a few minutes.”
He knows! He knows!
“I don’t want you looking down there. It’s not you . . . I . . . I have a problem with male doctors. Something happened when I was young . . . I only let women doctors touch me.”
“I can get Nurse Hazelwood to come in. She can examine you and talk about the breast-feeding.”
He knows! He knows!
“No, thank you,” I say, pulling my coat around me. “You’ve been very helpful, but I don’t want to be examined.”
Dr. Schur looks at the form I filled out earlier. “You haven’t given us the name of your home health aide.”
“I left her card at home.”
“Or your GP—what’s her name?”
“I’m seeing her later.”
He knows! He knows!
“Where did you have your baby?”
“In Leeds,” I say, sounding annoyed. “I told your receptionist. She wrote it down.”
“Where in Leeds?”
My tongue seems to have swollen, blocking my throat.
“You’re upset, Agatha. I think we should calm down,” says the doctor.
“I am calm.”
“Take a seat. I’m sure we can sort this out.”
“No! I’m leaving.” I pick up Rory and push past Hayden.
Dr. Schur steps in front of the door. “We need to discuss this.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
He touches my shoulder. The creature inside me is out, unchained, filling my throat.
“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!”
I don’t recognize the voice. It’s as though an entirely different person, an imposter, has momentarily taken my place. Dr. Schur takes a half step back and I reach the door. It opens outward and I keep moving, through the waiting room. Mrs. Cole is on her feet.
“GET AWAY FROM ME, BITCH, OR I’LL CUT YOUR EYES OUT.”
She reels backwards, her mouth gaping.
Hayden is yelling at me to stop. I turn my head and see Dr. Schur talking to the receptionist. She picks up the phone.
I keep moving. Running.
They know! They know! They know!
MEGHAN
* * *
The bastard! The fucking bastard!
Jack had an affair. He took another woman into our bed, into many beds, or on the floor, or sofa, or kitchen bench. I cannot help but picture him fucking Rhea Bowden in all those houses in South London with a FOR SALE sign out front. It makes me feel physically sick.
Every time I push the images away, they come back again. Of all the women he could have slept with he chose a blowsy, painted, bleached estate agent who looks like a cougar. She’s older than I am. The fucking bastard!
He’s been calling constantly, leaving messages, which I delete without listening to. I tell my parents not to answer their phones. Later, I hear Jack knock on the door and my father tells him to “give her some space.” Jack jams his shoe in the closing door and my father raises his voice.
