Secrets Between Us

  Secrets Between Us

  An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

  Valerie Keogh

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Valerie’s Email Sign-Up

  A Letter from Valerie

  Acknowledgements

  In memory of my mother, Kathleen Foley

  13th November 1920–11th November 2015

  1

  The letter came every Monday. It was delivered to the reception desk of St Germaine’s school for the Differently Abled sometime during the morning, the postman cycling from the nearby Scottish border town of Peebles, come rain, shine or winter snow. He never complained, delivering the bag of post with a customary smile and wave.

  In the basement kitchen, which served not only the school but the attached sheltered accommodation, Tia Bradshaw spent the morning as she always did, baking bread from a recipe she had memorised many years before. Occasionally, a new chef – and there had been several over the years – suggested changing the recipe. It always ended in disaster; Tia would start with one recipe but in the middle of mixing the ingredients, she’d forget and revert back to the ingredients from her old memorised recipe. The outcome was usually inedible.

  The current chef left her to her own devices, making the same bread, morning after morning, never taking a day off, the concept of such a thing beyond her. A previous manager, appalled, had insisted she have at least one morning a week off. ‘You can’t work every morning, Tia,’ she’d said kindly. ‘You need to rest, go for a walk, maybe go into town with one of the staff and do some shopping.’

  Tia had looked blankly at her and then, to the manager’s dismay, she’d started to cry. She was one of those rare people who could cry beautifully; fat tears appearing in the corner of her brown eyes, getting fatter and fatter until suddenly they’d overflow and run slowly down her cheeks. She never brushed them away, letting them fall until she was persuaded to stop.

  ‘I don’t want to have a day off,’ she had said, her voice thick. ‘I don’t like going outside.’

  The manager could have insisted but, like everyone, faced with those rolling tears, she had conceded defeat. ‘Well, if you are quite sure?’

  The change had been immediate and startling. The tears stopped, and Tia’s usual bland look returned. She was never asked to take a day off again, left alone to live her days as she chose.

  She always finished her bread-making at two, leaving the last loaves cooling on wire racks for the kitchen staff to put away when they were ready. She usually took her time – she never had anything to rush away for – and sometimes she’d sit and have a cup of tea with the kitchen staff who’d finished their busy lunchtime slot.

  But on a Monday, as soon as the minute hand reached twelve, she would rush to tear off her apron and run from the kitchen, flour on her face, dough on her hands, leaving a trail of both as she ran along the corridors and up the stairs to the floor where she lived. The housekeeping staff would later mutter Tia! under their breath as they wiped floury handprints from the walls and banister and swept up specks of dried dough from the floor.

  Sometimes she’d see the letter before she got to her door, a corner of the envelope sticking out. If she wasn’t careful the letter caught when she opened the door, becoming pleated and torn. When this happened, she cried, her tears plopping onto the damaged envelope, rendering it soft and difficult to open.

  It was best when the administrator sent the envelope sliding across the polished floor to land in the middle of her bedroom, sometimes as far as the opposite wall. She’d open the door, bright eyes full of expectation, and look around the room until she spotted it. She never doubted it would be there, somewhere. In all the years, her sister had never failed her.

  Taking the precious letter out, she would sit in her chair in front of the window, curling her legs under her, and read every word. Her sister wrote of the everyday things she did, the people she met, boyfriends, lovers, enemies, friends. She shared secrets with her, intimate details of her life, a life as different from Tia’s as it was possible to be. In simple, easy-to-read language, she shared everything. At the end of each letter, after signing Your loving sister, Ellie, there would be one final sentence. Don’t forget to burn this after you’ve read it.

  Tia finished each letter quickly, and would immediately read it again. Sometimes there would be a word she didn’t understand and she’d carefully write it down on a blank piece of paper and head to reception. ‘Can you tell me what this means?’ she’d ask the duty receptionist, handing her the piece of paper. It wasn’t always easy because a word out of context can have many different meanings, but the staff did their best.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tia would say before heading back to finish the letter, slowly this time, taking in every word. Sometimes, when the letter was long she’d reread it several more times before she was satisfied. And then, almost reluctantly, she’d fold it and head to the administration office.

  In the beginning, she’d tried to do exactly as Ellie wanted, to burn the letters when she’d finished, becoming inconsolable when she was told she wasn’t allowed. ‘I have to,’ she’d said.

  It had taken a lot of time and patient words to convince her that using a shredder was just as effective. ‘Your sister just wants to make sure her letters are destroyed. She wouldn’t mind if you shredded them instead. See,’ the manager had said, sliding a page into the shredder, pressing the button, and then opening the case to show her the resultant mass of shredded paper. ‘Just as good as burning.’

  Only after several weeks had Tia become reconciled to it. Now, she didn’t think twice. ‘Is it ok if I use the shredder,’ she’d ask, politely. Each time, the staff would smile, nod and point to where the machine sat under the desk. When she was younger, they’d switch it on for her but now they left her to it. Sometimes, if it were someone new on the desk, they’d say she didn’t have to ask. But she always did.

  And then Tia would wait, patiently, eagerly, for the next letter to come.

  Every Monday, for fifteen years, the letters came.

  If Tia had known the word, she would have said that for her sister the letters were cathartic; that in writing them, Ellie released the pent-up frustrations of a woman determined to make it in a tough world. And if for Ellie they were cathartic, for Tia they were fantasy stories about a different reality that she read a
nd enjoyed like a multi-part novel, unfolding a chapter at a time.

  Sometimes, a new resident or member of staff would ask Tia where she rushed off to every Monday. She would explain about her letter, and they would ask the inevitable question. Who’s it from? For a moment, Tia’s brow would crease and she would blink rapidly. Then her face would clear, her usual smile return, and she’d say, ‘It’s from Ellie.’

  Rarely was she questioned further, but if anyone ever asked, Who’s Ellie? a look of puzzlement would skim across her face, her eyelids would flutter faster, and she’d walk away without answering and then, she’d turn and say, ‘She’s my twin.’

  2

  Ellie Armstrong was beyond tired. She waited until everyone had left the boardroom before stretching, feeling muscles creak and a piercing pain in her right shoulder that told of too many hours hunched over her computer. The meeting had gone on for an hour longer than she’d expected. God Almighty, if she had to listen to Jeff Harper wittering on one more time, she might just have to do what she’d been promising her husband she’d do for the last two years and quit.

  Standing slowly and looking around the boardroom table, she knew that wasn’t ever going to happen, no matter what Will wanted. She’d told him before they got married that she was a career woman, that if he wanted a stay-at-home wife he’d better say so. He swore then that he liked things just the way they were.

  ‘But we will have children,’ he added; not a question, a statement. He was willing to accept some compromise, just not with this.

  ‘Eventually,’ Ellie had said.

  ‘When?’ Will had pushed her, wanting to know, needing a time frame.

  Ellie felt cornered and stayed silent.

  ‘It’s not because of your mother, is it?’ Will had asked. ‘You’re not afraid?’

  Was she? She’d be lying if she said it had never crossed her mind. Her mother had, after all, died during childbirth. But it wasn’t as simple as that. There were other things that worried her, things she tried not to think about. She looked at the open, honest face of this man she loved, and knew she couldn’t lie to him. Not about this.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she said softly, patting him on the cheek. ‘My mother was just unlucky, that’s all.’ She slid her hands around his neck and moulded her body to his. ‘There’s a lot of change in the company, Will. If I play my cards right, I could get that promotion I want. Just give me another year or two,’ she promised.

  Before the two years were up, Ellie spent a considerable amount of time planning the best time to conceive, poring over the calendar, discounting months that were certain to be too busy. Finally, she settled on a month.

  ‘How about April,’ she said to Will, over dinner one evening.

  He frowned. ‘How about April for what?’

  She smiled. ‘For making babies?’

  His fork clattered to his plate and he looked at her for a moment before getting up and pulling her into his arms. ‘You sure?’ he said.

  She buried her face in his neck. Yes, she was sure. She loved him and wanted his child, but that niggling worry in the back of her head still wouldn’t go away. She kissed him to block out her thoughts, watched as his eyes softened and wondered if it was possible to love anyone more.

  That night she stopped taking the contraceptive pill she’d been taking since her university days, and entered into the conception with the same drive and focus she did everything else.

  She’d left some wriggle room on the dates, so it didn’t matter if it didn’t happen immediately, but she expected to be pregnant within a month or two. She planned to work up to a week before her due date, take a couple of weeks off for the birth and recovery, find a good nanny and slot back into work before she was missed, and, more importantly, before any of her colleagues began to question her commitment.

  But months passed, and nothing happened. She tried to convince herself she didn’t really want children, that it didn’t matter because she had her career. If she repeated this to herself often enough, perhaps she’d start to believe it, but she knew she’d never be able to convince Will. She noticed him at friends’ homes, silently watching Joe and Steve and even that pain-in-the-ass Carlos playing with their children, and her heart ached for him.

  It was at his urging that they had the tests, scans, invasive examinations and meetings with insufferably condescending doctors. And, yesterday, a final meeting.

  ‘Final,’ Ellie said as they left the clinic, her voice thick with unshed tears. ‘That’s it, no more.’

  They’d waited in the expensively furnished offices, Will reading a magazine, trying to look relaxed, Ellie refraining from tapping her fingers on the wooden arm of the chair as she watched the minute hand of her watch drag.

  Finally, the office door had opened and the consultant gynaecologist waved them in, apologising perfunctorily, smiling, and offering coffee. Ellie, feeling Will’s warm hand in the small of her back as a gentle warning not to complain about being kept waiting, shook her head. ‘No,’ she managed to say, ‘we’d just like to hear the results of the tests.’

  The consultant, Jeremiah Gardiner, sat behind his large, polished desk, and opened a file on his laptop. His eyes lingered on it for a moment before he looked up.

  ‘We’ve done exhaustive tests, as you both know,’ he said, his eyes meeting theirs with an almost apologetic look.

  With a flash of insight, Ellie knew she wasn’t going to like what he said.

  ‘Mrs Armstrong,’ he said, ‘you say your doctors put your primary amenorrhoea down to stress following the loss of your father, and then to a subsequent eating disorder.’

  She nodded.

  ‘The eating disorder, bulimia, I gather. That went on for how long?’

  Biting the inside of her lip, Ellie weighed the question. Surely, they weren’t going to blame her inability to conceive on bulimia that lasted only a few months, were they? ‘Six months, at the most,’ she said, shrugging dismissively. ‘It wasn’t serious; all the girls were doing it. I’d never have described myself as having had an eating disorder, as such.’

  Dr Gardiner, who’d heard denial in all its many and varied forms, nodded as if he agreed, and continued as if he didn’t. ‘And you were how old at the time?’

  Ellie sighed. Loudly. ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘But you didn’t begin to menstruate then.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Why didn’t your GP advise further investigations?’

  Ellie shrugged again. She probably should have gone to the school nurse, but after the bulimia she’d had enough of the concerned faces and lectures, so hadn’t wanted to bother. ‘I never told anyone,’ she said, without elaborating.

  The consultant’s eyes flicked to the computer screen and when they returned to Ellie’s face, his gaze was a little softer.

  Her hands trembled in her lap. She wanted to tell him to get on with it, whatever it was. She guessed bad news. But she’d known, hadn’t she? Wasn’t it always in the back of her mind, the notion that something wasn’t quite right, that she wasn’t normal? She’d refused to address it, went on the pill her first week in university like everyone else and had been on it ever since.

  In their early years, before they’d started to properly think of a future together, she could have mentioned her doubts to Will, but the opportunity had passed and then it was too late. Because, by then, she knew how desperately he wanted to have a child and how desperate she was not to lose him.

  She’d clung to the hope that when she stopped taking the pill everything would be as it should be. Her period would come. She’d get pregnant. It would be happy ever after. But that worry never went away. And when it didn’t happen, she hoped for a while that he would accept it. That they’d drift into being one of those couples who’d just not been lucky enough to have children.

  They loved each other, they were happy, wasn’t that enough?

  But no, he had insisted on the damn tests and she had no choice but to go along with it. For a brief moment, she rese
nted him. Denial wasn’t a bad place to live.

  ‘I’ve consulted with a few of my colleagues,’ Dr Gardiner said, his voice dropping in pitch, becoming softer, deeper. ‘I’m afraid our conclusions are incontrovertible, Mrs Armstrong. At first we thought you had a version of Mayer-Rokitansky-Kuster-Hauser syndrome.’ He held up a hand at the sudden look of panic on Will’s face. ‘It’s okay, Mrs Armstrong doesn’t have it. It’s called MRKH, for short, and, as I said, it was something we considered but,’ he looked at Ellie, ‘you don’t have any of the other symptoms of that syndrome, and your blood tests have come back negative.’

  ‘So why did you think I might have it?’ Ellie asked, relieved to be talking about anything rather than her non-existent period.

  She looked across the desk, meeting Dr Gardiner’s cool gaze before dropping her eyes to where his long-fingered hands rested on the desk in front of him, his fingertips pushing together with such force that the top of each nail shone white. Mesmerised by them, Ellie wondered how much force was necessary and if it equated to how bad the news was. Her eyes flicked back to his face. Because it was bad, she could see the pity in his eyes. Dr Gardiner took a deep breath and answered her question.