Surprise Me
Page 66

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘At your house we talked about meeting up, possibly … That’s all. He just wanted to talk to me. Download. That’s all.’
‘Download about what?’ There’s an edge to my voice. ‘About how I’m “nuts”?’
‘What?’ She blinks at me in shock. ‘No!’
‘Stop denying it!’ I erupt. ‘I’ve seen the texts! “Running late”. “It’s ok have distracted S”.’ I make jabbing, quotey gestures at her. ‘“Remember PS factor”. I’ve read them! There’s no point lying!’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ She appears baffled. ‘What’s the PS factor? And he’s never been “running late” because we’ve never met up.’
I’m breathing hard. Seriously?
‘Look.’ I summon up the photos I took of Dan’s secret phone and thrust them in front of her. ‘Remember these?’
Mary looks down, her forehead delicately wrinkled, then shakes her head. ‘I’ve never seen these texts in my life.’
‘What?’ I’m almost shouting. ‘But they’re to “Mary”! Look! “Mary”!’
‘I don’t care. They’re not to me.’
For a moment we just stare at each other. My mind is scrabbling around and around, trying to find an explanation. Then Mary grabs the phone. She flicks through the photos until she comes to a text from “Mary” reading New mobile no. from tomorrow, followed by a string of digits.
‘That’s not my number,’ she says calmly. ‘Those aren’t my texts. I’ll show you my phone, if you like. You can read the texts Dan sent me, all three of them, and you’ll see how innocent they are.’ She grabs an iPhone from where it’s charging, and swipes it open.
A moment later I’m looking at three texts from Dan, all beginning Hi Mary, and all along the lines of So great to make contact. Mary’s right. They’re all innocent and even quite formal. Nothing like the intimate, casual ease of the other texts.
‘I don’t know who this is …’ She jerks a thumb at the photos on my phone. ‘But you have the wrong woman.’
‘But …’
I sink into a chair, my legs trembling. I feel shoffed. I feel so shoffed, I’m breathless. Who’s this other Mary? How many Marys does Dan have in his life? At last I glance up at Mary, who seems equally perplexed. She’s swiping slowly through my photos, and I can see her grimacing.
‘I can see why you’re … alarmed,’ she says. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Don’t know.’ I lift a helpless hand and drop it. ‘Dan went off somewhere last night. He said it was a work trip but I don’t believe him. Is he with her?’
‘No,’ says Mary at once. ‘I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do that. I think more likely—’ She stops as though a thought has occurred to her and I sit up, alert.
‘What?’ I demand. ‘What did he say to you? Did he confide in you?’
‘Not exactly. He started to … but then he stopped himself.’ Mary sighs. ‘I felt bad for him. He’s really stressed out at the moment.’
‘I know he’s stressed out!’ I exclaim in frustration. ‘But he won’t tell me why. I don’t even know where to start. It’s like there’s some massive great secret. But how can I help him if I don’t know what’s going on?’
Mary is swiping through the photos again, reading the texts carefully. Her brow is furrowed and she seems troubled. She looks as though she’s wrestling with a dilemma. She looks as though—
‘Oh my God.’ I stare at her. ‘He did tell you something. Didn’t he? What?’
Mary looks up and I can tell I’ve hit the mark. Her mouth is clamped shut. Her eyes are pained. Clearly he revealed something to her and she’s protecting him because she’s a good person and she thinks it’s the right thing to do. But it’s the wrong thing to do.
‘Please, Mary.’ I lean forward, trying to convey the urgency of the situation. ‘I know you’re his friend and you want to respect Dan’s confidence. But maybe the best way to help him is to break his confidence. I’ll never ever say it was you who told me,’ I add hurriedly. ‘And I’ll do the same for you, I promise.’
I can’t see how an equivalent situation will ever arise, but I mean it. If it does, I will totally reveal everything to Mary.
‘He didn’t tell me any details,’ says Mary reluctantly. ‘Not properly. But yes, there is … something. He said it was clogging up his life. He called it his “ongoing nightmare”.’
‘His “ongoing nightmare”?’ I echo in dismay. Dan has an ongoing nightmare that I don’t know about? But how can he? What is it? What hasn’t he told me?
‘That’s the phrase he used. He didn’t give any other details. Except …’ She bites her soft, pink lip, looking uncomfortable.
‘What?’ I’m nearly popping with frustration.
‘OK.’ She exhales. ‘Whatever it is … it has to do with your mother.’
I gape at her. ‘My mother?’
‘I’d talk to her. Ask her. I got the feeling …’ Again Mary stops herself. ‘Talk to her.’
I can’t face work. I text Clarissa, Still researching, back later, and head straight home. By the time I reach Wandsworth I’ve left Mummy three voicemails, texted and sent her an email – entitled We need to talk!!! – but I haven’t had a response. I’ll go round there in person if I have to. Right now, though, I need some quiet time to digest what I’ve just heard. An ‘ongoing nightmare’. How long has Dan been dealing with an ongoing nightmare?
It’s something to do with my mother, Mary said. Is this the ‘million pounds, maybe two’? Oh God, what’s going on, what?
And – worse – what if Mary’s wrong? What if I’m the ongoing nightmare? The thought makes me feel cold and rather small inside. I’m remembering Dan’s face last night. The way he said, ‘I can’t do this,’ as though he was at the end of his tether.
Every time I remember last night I cringe inside. I called him a ‘boring, fucking cliché’. I assumed he was just following the same old tedious trope: Husband Hooks Up with Old Flame, Lies to Wife. But there’s more. There’s something else. As I’m walking, I pull out my phone, wanting to text him again, wanting to make it right. I even get as far as Dear Dan, but then I stop. What do I say? Phrases shoot into my mind but I instantly discard them, one by one.
Tell me who the other Mary is. Please don’t shut me out any more. I know you have an ongoing nightmare; what is it?
If he wanted to tell me, he would have told me. Which brings me back to the question which fills me with foreboding: am I his ongoing nightmare?
As I walk along our street, tears are running down my face, but when I see Toby, I hastily scrub them away. He’s standing outside Tilda’s house, clutching a pair of rollerblades and a helmet.
‘Hi, Toby!’ I say. ‘I knew you’d be back.’
He nods. ‘Getting my blades. I forgot to take them.’ He dumps them in the boot of an open Corsa, which I don’t recognize.