The Winter Secret Page 11

  She was just drafting it when the door opened and Agnieska came in, a bucket of cleaning things in one hand, cloths in the other. When she saw Buttercup, she looked startled.

  ‘Sorry, I come later,’ she said, and started to leave.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. You won’t disturb me.’ Buttercup smiled reassuringly. ‘Honestly, go ahead.’

  ‘Okay.’ Agnieska looked uncertain but she came in and moved about in her silent way.

  She watched Agnieska for a moment as she dusted the frame of Natalie Rowe’s portrait and then turned back to her screen. On a whim, she brought up her social media account and typed Charlotte’s name into the search engine; her profile came up, locked and visible only to friends. She gazed at the picture: it was Charlotte cavorting on a beach in bright sunshine, frozen in a wild star jump of joy, her sandy hair bleached silver blond. Before she could change her mind, she sent a friend request. It was ridiculous that they weren’t in contact. She had decided to wait until they were closer but it seemed that she would have to get the ball rolling.

  Then, after a second’s hesitation, she typed in Ingrid’s name as well. She was the first result: Ingrid Redmain. The profile picture was a full-length shot of her in a summery dress, flanked by James and Charlotte in similarly smart clothes. Ingrid was wearing sunglasses and smiling broadly. It was impossible to make out much of what she actually looked like. She could be any average-looking dark-haired woman.

  Buttercup clicked on the profile but it was set to private and it wasn’t possible to see anything more than her profile pictures. Buttercup began to type in the names of the wives of Charles’s country friends, the ones she had met at dinner parties and drinks parties, who smiled coolly and were polite but distant. They had evidently known Ingrid. Most also had their profiles set to private, but one dippier type had left all her security wide open to whomever looked. Buttercup’s finger hovered over the mouse and then she sent a friend request to the dippy woman. The gateway towards Ingrid.

  But why on earth do I want to know anything about her? I know enough. She cheated on Charles and ended their marriage. Fine.

  And yet, she had been feeling more drawn to the house beyond the gates. Perhaps it was knowing that Agnieska was working there too. Perhaps it was because of the knowledge that everyone around her knew that mysterious dark-haired woman, and perhaps what had happened here when the marriage had imploded.

  Even if she made a link to Ingrid, what then? It was impossible to imagine that they would ever actually talk to one another. And what could an unfaithful wife tell her except to justify her own bad behaviour by painting her ex-husband in a bad light?

  She clicked the page shut and felt a chill tremble over her skin. She shuddered lightly and pulled her jumper down, wondering why she couldn’t feel the warmth of the fire burning in the grate. What am I doing? If Charles thought I was interested in Ingrid . . . well . . . he wouldn’t understand. And he certainly wouldn’t like it.

  Immediately she wished she hadn’t sent that friend request, but it was too late. She looked over at Agnieska, who was plumping cushions and straightening the cashmere throws. She realised that she had intended, casually, to ask her if she had started work at Fitzroy House and what it was like there.

  I can’t do that. I mustn’t. She shook her head and closed her computer down. I’m playing with fire. I must stop it.

  To assuage her guilt, she was extra loving and sweet to Charles, and he responded with pleasure to her spoiling of him. They had a lovely afternoon together, and he asked Carol to set the table in the small dining room, and make something special for them. He went down to the cellar for a good bottle of wine and they had a romantic evening, talking and laughing like the best of friends.

  Which we are, she thought, full of love and tenderness for him, and she reached out to stroke his hand.

  He raised his eyebrow, smiled and gave her a sideways look. ‘Does all this charm have anything to do with your . . . er . . . temperature, my darling?’

  She laughed. ‘You know, for once I wasn’t thinking about it. Now you mention it, it might be about the right time.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, we’re in the zone from today. Shall I take a reading?’

  ‘There’s no need.’ His thumb rubbed over the back of her hand, and he fixed her with an intense look. ‘Whether or not your temperature is doing its duty, I intend to have my wicked way with you.’

  Her stomach turned in a delicious swirl of anticipation. ‘You must have read my mind because that’s exactly what I’d like.’ She felt a burden lift from her. She had been letting her brain go into overdrive, and her silly suspicions were groundless. Why would Charles make love to her at her fertile time if he didn’t want her to get pregnant?

  Maybe tonight . . . maybe we’ll be lucky this time.

  The next morning, Buttercup woke to find Charles already up and the bed beside her empty.

  Downstairs, Carol passed on a message. ‘He said he’ll be back later, but he’s got to go to an early meeting. Steve’s driving him up to London.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine, thanks, Carol.’ Buttercup smiled happily. She replayed moments from the previous night and hoped, joyously, that everything that was supposed to happen was taking place right now in the mysterious inner darkness that was such an intimate part of her, and yet remained so unknowable.

  ‘Breakfast is set out for you in the dining room,’ Carol said as Buttercup bounded out of the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks!’ she called, heading off.

  She was eating bircher muesli and thumbing through emails on her phone, wondering when Charlotte might accept her friend request and if Lazlo had got her email, when it rang suddenly and made her jump. The name flashed up and she answered.

  ‘Hello, Rose?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs R, sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to ask about a payment.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your credit card statement has come in for settling, and there’s a name we don’t recognise. I just want to check it’s bona fide.’

  Buttercup felt suddenly cold. ‘Yes?’

  Rose said, ‘It’s a Harley Street clinic, but not any of your usual practitioners. The date is when you were here in London, so you may have arranged the appointment yourself. It’s called Barrett Singh. I looked it up – it’s a foetal health and fertility clinic.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She tried to sound unflustered. ‘Yes, I arranged it. Please make the payment.’

  ‘Okay, Mrs R,’ Rose said cheerfully.

  ‘Thanks so much. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s it. Have a wonderful day.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She put the phone down on the table and stared at it, unseeing. Her good mood had disappeared in an instant. She had completely forgotten about the credit card payment. Charles had given her the card after they married, and it had been a little exciting to know she could hand over that piece of plastic and have anything she wanted. She’d intended to use her own money for luxuries, though. After all, she’d always been independent and paid her own way, except for a small inheritance from her father that she put towards paying off some of her mortgage. She’d never known the strange freedom of wealth. But despite her good intentions, slowly but surely, encouraged by Charles, she’d grown accustomed to using her married accounts. As a result, they always knew where she’d been and what she’d spent: Charles’s bankers and accounts and assistants and managers. They knew what she’d bought as Christmas presents and what her haircuts cost. They knew when she’d had a facial or been to the gym or needed new underwear. They had access to the smallest details of her life and routine, they could probably describe her activities better than she could. They certainly knew more about the cost of, say, keeping Milky than she did.

  And whatever they knew, Charles could know. Perhaps he did know.

  She felt a rush of panic at the idea of him finding out that she’d been to a fertility clinic behind his back. No matter how she tried to explain it, it w
ould look like deception. He had never yet been properly angry with her, and she knew with deep certainty that she didn’t want to provoke that anger.

  Picking up the phone, she rang Rose back.

  ‘Mrs R?’

  ‘Rose . . . I wonder if you can do me a favour. Would you kindly not mention to my husband about that appointment?’

  There was a brief pause, then Rose said, ‘I never volunteer anything about your movements.’

  ‘Does my husband ever ask?’

  There was another, longer pause. ‘Well, I . . . I suppose he does sometimes ask.’

  ‘Does he?’ She was surprised. She told Charles whatever he wanted to know, why did he need to question the staff? ‘What does he ask?’

  ‘Mrs Redmain, I can’t go into what happens in the office.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what happens in the office. This is about me. I wondered whether, for example, the accountants pass my bank statements to Charles. Obviously, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t see them, but I’d like to know.’ She tried to keep her tone light, not wanting to alert Rose to any anxiety on her part.

  Rose’s voice dropped down a tone. ‘Mrs R, I can’t talk about it. I’m bound by confidentiality agreements.’

  ‘About my bank statements?’ Buttercup laughed. It came out a little too shrilly. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘About a lot of things and it’s better not to risk getting things wrong. I can only suggest you talk to the boss about it all, I can’t get involved. I’m sorry.’

  ‘But, Rose – you won’t tell about Barrett Singh, will you? It’s something I’d like to discuss with Charles in my own time.’

  ‘It’s not up to me.’ Buttercup could hear the strain in Rose’s voice. ‘I don’t have any control over it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Okay, I understand. But maybe just hold that statement back for a month, will you? Until I’ve had an opportunity to talk to Charles about it? It’s just so personal, I’m sure you must understand that. Please . . . ?’

  She heard Rose’s breath escaping in a worried sigh as she thought. Then she said quickly, ‘All right. I can hold it back a month without any questions being asked. But then I’ll have to put it in the file.’

  ‘Thank you, Rose. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mrs R. But please – talk to him, won’t you? Much better that way, I promise you.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks again.’

  As she put the phone down, feeling dazed and thinking over what Rose had just said to her, Carol came in, breezy and good-humoured as always, holding a tray for the dirty dishes. She started loading it up.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asked. ‘You’re feeling all right, are you? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’ Buttercup looked up at Carol with a smile. She saw – or did she? – Carol’s eyes flick to the screen of her phone, which was still alight and showing her email inbox. She moved her hand to cover it and when she looked back, Carol was busy putting the empty yoghurt dish on the tray and stacking unused plates.

  She had the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that there were more eyes on her than she had ever understood.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘The results are ready for you now, Mrs Redmain. We were going to email them today and post a hard copy to your London address.’

  ‘Oh no, please don’t do that,’ Buttercup said into the phone, relieved that she’d called the clinic before the documents went into the post. She was standing outside by the railings at the edge of the park. The rain of the morning had stopped and the weather was suddenly clear, cold and blue, with only the rotting detritus of the leaves blown down in the rainstorms to recall the recent deluge. ‘Can you hold them for me? I’d like to collect them in person. Tomorrow, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. We’ll hold them for you till then. Thank you, Mrs Redmain, and see you tomorrow.’

  The phone went dead before she could ask the receptionist what the results actually were, but perhaps she wouldn’t have been allowed to read them in any case. She had suddenly decided that she didn’t want such delicate, personal material sent to her electronically, though she didn’t know why it mattered. She was glad she had stopped the hard copy arriving at the London house.

  I can wait till tomorrow. And maybe, just maybe, I’m pregnant already.

  The idea filled her with a rush of joyous warmth, and a sudden wild fascination with whatever might be happening inside her. She longed to know. She imagined telling Charles the happy news, and how she might find some funny way to do it, something they could remember for years afterwards. ‘Do you remember when I said . . . and your face . . . you realised what I meant! And then we had our darling . . .’

  The joy faded and her anxiety returned. It all depended on what the results were. What if they told her that she had serious fertility problems and could never bear a child? Or that she would need serious, lengthy and expensive interventions?

  I need to know before I tell Charles about going to the clinic. But I must tell him before he finds out I went behind his back.

  She walked back towards the house, feeling low. She’d married thinking that there would never be any secrets between her and her husband. One of the things that had made her so sure about Charles was the certainty that he was her best friend; she could tell him anything – and she did. She’d opened her heart to him, and shared whatever was in it without any censorship. But now, by omission, she was being deceitful.

  How did I get like this? Hiding something so important, so integral to us.

  She had the discomfiting thought that she had been pushed into this position, and yet she wasn’t entirely sure how. But her conversation with Rose kept replaying itself in her head and adding to her sense of anxiety. She wanted to know more about what went on in Charles’s office.

  When I go back to London, I’ll see Rose and talk to her about it.

  The good weather held as she drove into London, negotiating the traffic right to the heart of the city, where the Houses of Parliament, built in spikily confident Victorian Gothic, flew their bright flag by the river, and the Abbey sat beside it in all its ancient magnificence.

  She arrived at the Westminster house in the early afternoon, and stopped at the office on the way up to the flat, putting her head around the door to look for Rose.

  Elaine looked up from the computer screen on her large black desk as Buttercup came in. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs R. How was the drive?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. How are you, Elaine? Busy?’

  Elaine smiled. She looked so familiar, her short black hair in that business-like crop and the splashily coloured tunic top coordinated with coral lipstick, yet Buttercup felt that she hardly knew this woman, despite her key role in Charles’s life. ‘It’s always busy with Mr R!’ she said perkily.

  ‘Where is he today?’

  ‘Meetings in the City. Dinner at the House with a couple of MPs. He’s sorry he won’t be around to see you until later. You are staying, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, for tonight.’

  ‘Good. He’ll be pleased. What brings you to town?’

  ‘Just a whim. I want to do some shopping and my friend Hazel promised to take me out to a new club she’s joined.’

  ‘That sounds nice.’

  Buttercup looked about the office. As always, it was pristine and well organised. Elaine’s in and out trays were empty, as Charles hated to see piles of paper. Buttercup hoped that there were boxes of unsorted stuff hidden away in filing cabinets and cupboards, to make this whole set-up a bit more human, but somehow she doubted it. Elaine was probably every bit as pernickety as Charles. ‘Is Rose around?’

  ‘She’s got the afternoon off to do wedding things. She’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay.’ Buttercup tried to look casual. ‘I thought I might ask her advice about some things in the flat. Could she come up and see me tomorrow when she gets into the office?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll tell her. You’re sure
I can’t help?’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but I thought Rose might . . . Well, I don’t want to bother you. Just send her up tomorrow when she gets in. Thanks.’

  She turned away quickly before Elaine could repeat her offer, and headed up the stairs to the flat. Inside, she let out a long breath. It was strange how stressful it could be trying to conceal things in this environment. She couldn’t say anything without thinking first about what she was giving away.

  Buttercup put down her things, and went out again almost immediately, heading towards the clinic, thinking only of the results waiting for her there.

  ‘You’re afraid to tell your husband you went to a fertility clinic?’ Hazel hissed over the white linen tablecloth. ‘Buttercup, how many kinds of wrong is that?’

  They were sitting in the dark basement dining room of Hazel’s club, and Buttercup had not been able to keep the results of the tests to herself. But explaining about the trip to the clinic was just the preamble to the main event and Buttercup was taken aback by Hazel’s reaction to the news of her appointment there.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And, I might add, you kept it very quiet when we last met!’ Hazel added, looking hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you. And I should have told Charles. You’re right – it’s not normal.’

  ‘Not normal? It’s completely weird that you went without him in the first place.’

  ‘I know.’ Buttercup looked down, ashamed. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I’m not surprised he’d be outraged about me going behind his back.’

  ‘No – it’s not that.’ Hazel laughed mirthlessly. ‘Oh my God, it’s not that. Don’t you see? It’s the fact that you felt you had to go on your own! Why wouldn’t he go with you to find out what the hell is wrong?’

  ‘He doesn’t think anything is wrong.’