One Secret Summer (65 page)

A short, sharp horn-blast announced the driver’s arrival. He took one last look around, picked up his bag and slung it over
his shoulder. He closed the door behind him and stepped into the heat. Within minutes they were away. He watched the city
slip past, a cornucopia of corrugated tin roofs, skyscrapers and mouldy cement, interspersed with flashes of brilliant, riotous
bougainvillea, spilling out over crumbling walls and fences along the route. It took them less than thirty minutes to reach
the airport. He checked in, watched his bag disappear on the thick black tongue of the luggage belt and then made his way
upstairs. He had a whisky in the bar, felt it slide hot and silky down his throat, momentarily calming him, and then made
his way on to the plane. It was a ten-hour flight back to London. Somewhere along the journey, he hoped, an answer of sorts
would come to him. Or perhaps not.

DIANA

London, October 2000

Harvey’s car was in the driveway when she pulled up that evening. She parked her little sports car neatly next to his, unsure
whether to be relieved or not. It had been a long day in chambers, her mind barely there, listening with a fraction of her
usual concentration to the voices of those around her. Whilst everyone else went on talking, she withdrew into herself, her
mind focused only on how she was going to tell Harvey – what words she would use, and, perhaps more importantly, where and
when she would stop. What did he need to know? What did she
need to tell him and what could she leave out? There was only one person who needed to know absolutely everything, and that
was Josh. What happened afterwards was up to him, not her. But Harvey? What were the limits of his understanding? Lately she’d
been unable to control her thoughts or stop them dead in their dangerous tracks – one wrong move or a tender word and things
might start tumbling out that she couldn’t afford.

She picked up her bag from the passenger seat and opened the door. She noticed, not for the first time, that little things
like getting out of the car or picking up her bag single-handedly were becoming more difficult. All of a sudden, it seemed,
she was no longer in proper control of her body – it deserted her at the oddest, weakest moments. She couldn’t trust it to
obey her commands. She stood for a moment, leaning against the car, breathing heavily. She hadn’t expected this – the sudden
and frightening decline of her strength. Nor was it constant or continuous. She would have a moment’s weakness, a slight shortness
of breath, and then things would swing themselves back to normal and all was exactly as before. It made the moments when the
weakness took hold of her that much harder to accept. She took another deep breath, steadied herself and then walked up the
path to the house. She slid the key into the lock and pushed open the door. It took her a moment to realise that Harvey was
standing there in the hallway, a look of agitation on his normally placid, calm face. A tremor of fear ran through her. ‘Darling,’
she began, putting her bag down and turning to him. ‘You’re home early.’

‘I’ve been here since one. I cancelled my list. Diana … why didn’t you tell me?’

She turned to him slowly, feeling the blood slowly draining away from her limbs and face. How did he know? ‘I … I … wanted
to …’ she began, putting out a hand to support herself against the sideboard. Her knees felt weak. ‘I … I should have, I know,
I should have told you. H … how did you hear?’

‘I bumped into Geoffrey at the Wellington this afternoon.
No, he didn’t give me the details … What is it, Diana? What’s wrong?
Tell
me.’

‘Harvey …’ She stopped. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Now that the moment had come, she couldn’t speak.

He grasped her wrist, pulling her towards him. ‘Come here. I don’t know why I didn’t notice … so stupid of me … I could see
something wasn’t right. Diana … what is it? Just tell me. For God’s sake,
tell
me.’

She had only seen him cry once before, twenty years earlier, in the small hours of the morning. It was the first time a patient
had died on the operating table, he told her eventually, his voice hoarse with tears. A young girl; a brain tumour. She’d
bled uncontrollably to death in front of them and there wasn’t a damn thing any of them could do. She’d held him close to
her for the remainder of the night, feeling the tension slowly slip out of his large, supremely capable body. But by morning,
he was back to normal. That had been the only time. Until now. He cried silently, his powerful shoulders jerking a little
as he struggled to catch his breath. She was the dry-eyed, strong and compassionate one. She patted his hand as she’d done
to her children, once. There were no tears lurking inside her, not yet at any rate.

He got up from the kitchen table, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand. It wasn’t a gesture she’d ever
seen him make. She’d always known Harvey loved her, without question or reservation; it had been the touchstone of their life
together. For him there’d been no one else; there never would be. She could no more understand it than she dared to bring
herself to question it.
This is it, then
, she thought to herself as she finished speaking, her throat suddenly painfully constricted.
This is it. There, I’ve told him
. A single sentence breaking itself out of the confusion: Harvey knows. There was no turning back, now. Harvey knows. She
lifted her gaze to meet his. Curiously, now that it was out, she was no longer afraid.

RAFE/MADDY

London October 2000

Rafe stood back to let his registrar close up the wound, keeping a watchful eye on him. The registrar was young and gifted
but still unsure of himself, much as Rafe himself had been at the beginning. Through his green mask he could hear the young
man’s breathing, nice and steady, as he positioned the sucker, draining away the excess fluid and blood. He looked up once
– everything OK? Rafe nodded, giving him permission to make the final stitches, then he stepped away and left the team to
it, his clogs squeaking on the polished floor. The theatre doors swung shut behind him. He glanced at his watch. It was almost
noon. One more case and then he was done for the weekend. He pushed open the doors to the second theatre impatiently. The
patient was a young girl with a short history of gradually diminishing sight. The test results were in – a tumour behind the
rear ventricle, pressing down on the ocular muscle. It was a delicate operation of the sort he rather enjoyed. He slipped
on his mask and gloves and joined the team at the table. Everything was ready and waiting for him. The back of the patient’s
head had been expertly opened up and he was able to look inside without obstruction. The brain lay exposed before him with
all the fragile, lovely beauty of a flower. In that moment, instead of concentrating on his incision and planning his next
moves, he thought of Maddy and the soft, sensual entrance into her body. Fortunately, he came to his senses immediately, his
whole being flooded with a mixture of desire and embarrassment. He spent the next thirty minutes carefully incising the tumour,
taking care not to disturb any of the surrounding tissue. Finally, it was done. He left the assisting surgeon to finish the
job and made his way back towards the doors again. He shrugged off his robe and mask and dropped them in the incinerator chute.
He made his way to
the basement garage, but his mind kept drifting back to Maddy. The image that had come to him disturbed him; it had been so
long since he and Maddy had made love. Months, as a matter of fact. Something was going on but he couldn’t work out what.
She’d changed. She’d lost weight, he realised. That morning, as he left for work and she got ready for her final rehearsal,
he’d noticed her crossing the floor to pick up her dressing gown. He’d looked up, about to tell her something – he could no
longer recall what – but the sight of her ribs had stopped him. They were showing in a way he’d never noticed before, all
the way round her back. He’d looked at her closely but hadn’t said anything. Perhaps she was on a diet? He tried to recall
what they’d both eaten at dinner … pasta with chicken, something like that. But she’d had a second helping, he remembered.
And he’d been the one to decline the cheese, not her. A glass of wine or two … that was no diet that he’d ever heard of. It
had been a while since she’d complained about being fat, too. A cold feeling of unease began to settle all over him. It was
as if he knew what was coming, but couldn’t see it.

She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said. ‘Too
thin
?’ she echoed. ‘Me?’

He lifted his shoulders. ‘Yes … I don’t know, you’re much thinner than you used to be. I saw your ribs this morning and …’
His voice trailed off. An ugly blush had spread itself across her face and neck. He began to wish he hadn’t brought it up.

‘No, I’m not. I’m exactly the same weight as I’ve always been. It’s the rehearsals, that’s all. I don’t always have time to
eat lunch.’ She turned away from him, busying herself with the dishes.

He remained where he was, unsure of himself; should he go on, press the point? There was tension in the way she held herself
at the sink, he saw. He’d touched on something raw. But what? He tried again, regretting it as soon as he opened his mouth.
‘But, Maddy …’

‘Drop it, Rafe.’ Her voice was a low, tight command.

‘But—’

‘Rafe.’ Maddy turned round. There were two brilliant red spots of anger in her cheeks and her eyes were glassy with tears.
She was trembling ever so slightly. She untied the apron and laid it carefully on the counter top. ‘Just
drop
it, will you?’ she hissed.

‘Maddy—’

But she was gone. She walked out of the room, holding herself very tense and still. He heard her climb the stairs and shut
the bedroom door. He stood in the middle of the kitchen feeling like a prize idiot, wondering what he’d done wrong and why
she’d reacted like that. What was going on? What had he failed to spot? He was a doctor and yet he could do nothing to help
her. How could he when he had no idea what was wrong?

Again and again. She retched in almost total silence, removing the last traces of the conversation from her body and mind.
She reached up for the handle and tugged downwards, watching the angry swirl with relief. It was gone. All gone. She stood
up, feeling slightly dizzy. She put a hand under her jumper and touched her skin … she could feel her ribs standing hard and
proud underneath her fingertips. Was it true? Had she really lost so much weight? She lifted her jumper up all the way and
turned to face the mirror. Her heart was thumping. No, no … no change at all. She saw herself as she’d always done. White,
alabaster skin, freckled here and there, dimpled at the belly button, the same gross swelling of her abdomen when she turned
sideways … he was completely wrong. She was
fat
, not
thin
. What the hell was wrong with him? She tugged her jumper back down again. She picked up her toothbrush and began brushing
her teeth. Soon the bitter taste of bile was replaced by a pleasingly sweet peppermint. She rinsed her mouth once more, smoothed
down her hair and opened the door. The flat was quiet. Fortunately their muted, angry exchange in the kitchen hadn’t woken
Darcy up. She drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked downstairs to the living room.

He looked up as she entered. The look of perplexed worry in his face sliced through her like a knife. She walked over to the
couch and sat down beside him. She took one of his hands in hers, turning it over slowly. When she first met him, it was his
hands that had fascinated her most. She couldn’t stop staring at them – less for their physical qualities than for what she
imagined their capabilities to be. ‘You save people’s lives with these,’ she’d said to him on more than one occasion, lifting
up one of his hands to her cheek. He’d laughed, embarrassed, but it was true. She was in awe of what his hands could do. Now
she traced the raised map of tendons, running her fingers in between his own, lacing his hand tightly to hers. She felt in
his answering grip his relief. She turned her head and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, pressing herself into him. ‘I’m
sorry.’

‘For what?’ He held her tightly.

‘Everything. For snapping at you. For not taking better care of Darcy. For not being nicer to Diana … for everything.’

‘Is … is everything all right, Mads?’ Rafe used his nickname for her.

‘Of course it is. It’s just—’

But whatever she was about to say was cut short by the shrill ringing of the phone. Rafe stretched out one hand to pick it
up but the other stayed where it was, holding her. She leaned into him gratefully. ‘Hello?’ He listened to whoever was on
the other end for a few minutes. She felt his body stiffen. ‘I’ll be right there.’

‘Who is it?’ she asked, looking up into his face. There was a terrible confusion in it, something she’d never seen in him.
‘Who is it?’ she repeated, suddenly afraid. Darcy was upstairs. She was safe. Who else was there to worry about?

‘It’s Harvey. Dad. I … I’ve got to go over. Now.’ His words came out in short, sharp bursts, as though he were out of breath.

‘What’s the matter?’ Maddy reached out a hand to stop him, but he’d already disengaged himself and was practically running
towards the door.

‘It’s Diana. Something’s happened. I’ll … I’ll call you later,’
he called over his shoulder, grabbing his jacket. The front door slammed behind him and he was gone. She leaned back against
the cushions, perplexed. Something wrong with Diana? What on earth could be wrong with
her
? She passed a hand over her lips, feeling their rough, papery texture against her fingertips. She knew exactly why they were
so dry. That was another one of the little side effects of her ‘problem’ – with the opening night of
Phaedra
only two days away, she’d been feeling even more panicked than usual … silly, of course. She had a grand total of eight lines
and she’d more or less memorised everyone else’s parts. She knew the play inside out, back to front and front to back. She’d
read every interpretation going; studied the critics’ responses to other, older adaptations … she’d fine-tuned her eight lines
until they sang. In other words, it was all going to be fine.
She
would be fine. She had tickets for everyone; she’d organised a babysitter for Darcy and there were several bottles of champagne
in the fridge for herself and Rafe to celebrate when it was all over. She felt a ripple of excitement rush through her at
the thought of the rest of the family seeing her up there on the stage, in some capacity other than the one they knew – Rafe’s
wife, Darcy’s mother, somebody’s sister-in-law. For the first time since she’d come to London, she would be herself, who she
really was. An actress. Someone with a profession and a talent worth showing. Herself, in other words.
As she really was and as she’d like to be seen
. She buried her face in her hands, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. From now on, things would be different.
There’d be no need to panic, no need to be afraid or to find herself out of her depth. She would be able to hold her head
up amongst them all, yes, even Diana. More than anything, it was Diana’s respect she craved. She no longer cared whether Diana
liked her or not. That, she realised, was out of her hands and always would be. But respect was another issue altogether.
That she could control. Signing up with Stef, getting an audition and actually landing the part were the first, tentative
steps towards regaining some control. If she could do that, there
was no telling what else she could do. She looked at her hands. They too were dry, the skin paper-thin. It was time to stop
that other stuff before it was too late.