My Mother's Secret Read online

  ‘It’s true. Tell them, Mum.’ Roisin put her hands on her hips. ‘These days everyone thinks they have all the time in the world to do what they want. But it’s not that straightforward. Women leave it late to have their children and then find out they can’t get pregnant. Men can’t keep up with their kids because they’re the wrong side of forty.’

  ‘Roisin has a point,’ said Jenny. ‘You think you can have it all, when you want it, but you can’t. Life isn’t like that, no matter what the self-help books and the advertising companies want you to believe.’ She set her empty glass on the table, surprised that she’d finished the rosé without noticing.

  ‘I don’t believe I can have it all,’ said Steffie. ‘But I have what I want right now.’ If you discount the fact that I’m going to break up with Steve and I haven’t heard anything about my design bid yet, she added to herself.

  ‘So do I,’ said Davey. He went to pat the box in the pocket of his jacket and then remembered that he’d finally taken it off and hung it in the hallway. Which possibly wasn’t the brightest thing to have done, he supposed. But he’d been sweltering and the time wasn’t right to propose to Camilla yet. That would be later, when everyone was chilled after a pleasant day. Which it had been so far.

  ‘Does it seem like forty years?’ Steffie asked her mother.

  Jenny shook her head. ‘My entire life seems to have passed in the blink of an eye,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly my point.’ Roisin looked pleased with herself.

  ‘I bet it was amazing getting married in Rome,’ Steffie said. ‘You looked so happy and so pretty in your dress. It was really cute and simple.’

  ‘Simple was all I could afford,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I prefer the pic of you on your honeymoon in Sorrento,’ Roisin remarked. ‘The one on the boat. You look very glamorous in that one.’

  Jenny had been feeling glamorous. And forgetting how things really were. But then, she told herself, I’m good at that, I do it all the time.

  ‘It’s a pity they’re all so fuzzy,’ observed Steffie.

  ‘Your iPhone takes better photos than the camera we had back then,’ Jenny said.

  And just as well Steve Jobs had only started tinkering in his garage in the seventies, she thought, as she refilled her glass. If there had been iPhones and internet and streaming and everything in 1975, things would have been very, very different.

  After Rome, Sorrento had been glorious. The sea breeze was a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the city and Jenny had felt fresh and energised again. Pascal asked her every morning if she felt OK and she told him that she was fine and that it mustn’t have been proper morning sickness, because if it had been surely it would’ve lasted much longer. In fact, she said, she was sure it really had been nothing more than a bug. The test could have been wrong. After all, she didn’t feel pregnant. She didn’t feel anything.

  Jenny wasn’t all that clued about pregnancy. Her mother had given her a booklet about it when she first started having periods, and there had been two lessons on The Female Body in her convent school, but neither had gone into any great detail about what was in store. The lessons had been given by Sister Genevieve, the youngest and prettiest of the nuns, but she’d blushed bright red every time she’d said the word vagina, and the class of girls had blushed along with her.

  Pascal suggested that she take another test. It was harder to find a home kit in Sorrento than it had been in Rome, but when she did and she took the test, it confirmed her pregnancy. Which was just as well, she thought, given all the trouble they’d gone to in Rome a few days earlier.

  Every morning she looked at her stomach, trying to assess how much it had grown. She thought she had a slight bump, but she was still significantly slimmer than most of the other people on holiday. So she was perfectly happy to lie on a sunbed by the pool of the Villa Maritimo in her skimpy bikini and devour the Harold Robbins book she’d bought at the airport. She’d never read a blockbuster before and she was enthralled by the glamour and sex on the pages in front of her. If she’d read it before sleeping with Pascal for the first time, she thought, she’d have been much more adventurous in bed. Although she supposed in the end she’d been adventurous enough.

  It wasn’t all lying around – with her Celtic complexion Jenny couldn’t take too much sun, even under the biggest umbrella the Villa Maritimo could provide, and Pascal was happy to explore the town and surrounding area. They also took the ferry to Capri, where they visited the Certosa di San Giacomo and the Grotta Azzura before finding a pavement café where they ate ice cream and drank espressos. (Both of them developed a lifelong addiction to Italian coffee after their stay.) They only had a few photos left on their film roll, and they were keeping them for a visit to Pompeii, but on the return journey Pascal took one of her as she channelled her inner Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida by standing at the handrail of the ferry, a large sunhat on her head and equally large sunglasses on her face.

  In the evenings they ate in the least expensive of the restaurants near their hotel, but it was still a big thrill to sit at a table in the night air and be waited on. That was another new experience for Jenny. Eating out in Dublin usually meant going to some kind of burger bar, because most of the other restaurants were out of her price range. Italy was a different life and she wanted to make the most of it. Because after her baby was born, she knew that things would change for ever.

  She said this to Pascal, who agreed that there would be changes but who also reminded her that he was ready for those changes. He promised her that he’d be a good father to their child. He told her that she meant more to him than anyone in the world, and on their last night in Sorrento he didn’t wave away the flower sellers who went from table to table in the restaurants trying to get people to buy overpriced roses, but bought one for her and told her to keep it for ever.

  Jenny wasn’t a sentimental person. She didn’t believe in keepsakes. But she’d kept the rose.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ muttered Carl. ‘I don’t effing believe it.’

  ‘What don’t you believe?’ Summer leaned her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Bernice,’ said Carl. ‘Over there.’

  ‘Your ex?’ She straightened up, her eyes wide. ‘Your ex has shown up?’

  ‘I don’t know why. She wasn’t invited.’

  ‘Neither was I.’ Summer grinned and kissed him.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Carl. ‘Not while … not …’

  ‘You don’t want her to know that you’re with me now?’ Summer looked archly at him.

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Carl. ‘I need to keep an eye on her. See what she’s up to.’

  He knew that Bernice had seen him. She had to have. She was walking in his direction. But then just as he thought she was going to come up to him, she turned away and started talking to Alivia. He released his breath slowly.

  ‘D’you think she’s here to create a scene?’ asked Summer.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well if she wants a fight …’

  ‘God almighty, Summer, you’re not going to fight with her.’ Carl was horrified.

  Summer giggled. ‘Of course not. What d’you think I am? Anyway, what would I have to fight about? She’s the ex. Mind you,’ she added, her voice hardening a little, ‘she’s very attractive.’

  ‘She doesn’t normally look like that,’ said Carl. ‘I’ve never seen that hairstyle on her before.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Summer frowned. ‘Maybe she’s here to make a play for you. Maybe I’ll have to fight her after all.’

  ‘A play for me?’

  ‘You don’t have to sound so pleased with yourself,’ said Summer. ‘Just because she might want to get you back doesn’t mean you’re totally God’s gift.’

  Carl beamed at her. ‘I love the way you say what you think.’

  ‘It’s the only way,’ Summer told him. ‘I hate people who make things complicated. Why say one thing and mean something el
se. Life’s too short.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ He put his arms around her slender waist and pulled her towards him. Then he kissed her on the mouth.

  He didn’t care if Bernice saw them or not.

  As soon as Steffie and Roisin started loading paper plates with food, the guests began to drift towards the house, and it wasn’t long before there was a queue of people waiting for the cold meats and salads. Jenny had wanted to help but the two girls shooed her out of the kitchen with a couple of plates piled high and told her to find Pascal and feed him.

  ‘I’m glad I don’t work in a canteen,’ Steffie told Roisin when they’d eventually finished serving. ‘This is exhausting.’

  ‘I know. We should’ve got someone in to do it for us,’ said Roisin. ‘I don’t feel I’m having much of a good time myself. I’m too stressed about food and drink and whether people are enjoying themselves.’

  ‘And if some kind of fight is going to break out between Bernice and Carl,’ added Steffie. ‘Or Bernice and Summer. Or Bernice and Summer and—’

  ‘OK, OK, I get the point.’ Roisin groaned. ‘Why does there always have to be some kind of potential disaster at every damn party this family has?’

  ‘That’s why I don’t like them,’ said Steffie. ‘Alcohol mixed with people who normally can’t stand each other is an explosive combination.’

  ‘Are you saying today was a bad idea?’ Roisin’s voice was dangerously even.

  ‘No,’ lied Steffie. ‘But you never know what crazy things people will do to mess up the day. And when you’re the one in charge of the party, you feel responsible.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m always the one who’s responsible for everything,’ said Roisin. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen.’

  ‘You’re not entirely resp—’ began Steffie and then broke off as Daisy walked into the kitchen and Roisin gasped in dismay at her daughter’s outfit.

  ‘Daisy Carmichael, what in the name of all that’s holy is that you’re wearing?’ she demanded.

  ‘My top and shorts,’ said Daisy.

  Roisin looked at the cropped top, which left an expanse of bare flesh from beneath Daisy’s chest to the top of her low-cut denim shorts.

  ‘You weren’t wearing it when you left the house.’

  ‘I was,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I wouldn’t have let you out looking like that,’ said Roisin.

  ‘I had my other T-shirt over it,’ said Daisy. ‘But it’s so hot I took it off.’

  ‘You can put it right back on again,’ said Roisin.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘That’s not a good look,’ said Roisin.

  ‘It’s what everyone’s wearing this summer,’ protested Daisy. ‘And it’s not like I’m out on the streets. It’s all family and friends here.’

  ‘She has a point,’ Steffie said and received a grateful smile from her niece but a daggered glare from Roisin.

  ‘Anyway, all the men are either too old or too young to appreciate me.’ Daisy took a plate and marched out of the kitchen.

  Steffie couldn’t help laughing

  ‘Just wait,’ said Roisin grimly. ‘Wait till you have your own.’

  ‘I think you’ve made a very good case against it there,’ said Steffie.

  ‘Would you seriously not have kids?’

  Now that everyone had taken their food outside, Roisin helped herself to the remnants of the ham and then poured white wine into a fresh glass.

  ‘I told you, they’re not on my radar yet.’

  ‘Don’t come crying to me when you have to have IVF because you’re too old to conceive.’

  ‘For crying out loud, Roisin. Get a grip. I’m twenty-seven, not fifty-seven.’

  ‘We had loads of cousins when we were small. It was great. My kids should have them too.’

  ‘It’ll be a bit late for them by the time I get around to it.’ Steffie looked at her in amusement. ‘Maybe Davey and Camilla are a better bet.’

  ‘Maybe they are,’ said Roisin and added more wine to her glass so that it was almost overflowing.

  Bernice had told herself over and over again that she didn’t have an ulterior motive in coming to Jenny and Pascal’s party, although there were a number she could have chosen from if she’d sat down and thought about it for long enough. Perhaps the most important was that she wanted Carl to see her looking good. Not because she wanted to show him what he was missing, but because she wanted him to know that no matter what they decided, she was able to look after herself.

  She hadn’t expected him to be with somebody else. When she saw him kiss that girl, Summer, in front of her, she’d wanted to punch him in the head. She knew he’d only kissed her like that because she could see them. It was pathetic. Or at least it would have been if it hadn’t had the effect he’d undoubtedly wanted. Not the part about her wanting to punch him in the head, but the very real surge of jealousy she’d felt at the sight of another woman acting that way with a man who until recently had been hers. She’d been shaking with anger and humiliation as she’d turned away and she’d thought then of taking the neatly folded oblong of paper out of her handbag and shoving it at him. But she hadn’t. She’d stood and talked to Alivia as though everything was perfectly normal, as though none of it mattered.

  But Alivia had known it mattered and had told her that Carl was making a holy show of himself and that it was all about him putting on an act and that Bernice wasn’t to worry about it at all. Bernice thought Alivia was probably right. But it didn’t make it any easier. She wished now she hadn’t come. She supposed everyone else wished she hadn’t come either. Which was unfair. She was the one who’d made sure that, as a couple, she and Carl had kept in touch with the family: Carl’s two brothers who’d emigrated and lived in the States; Colette, even though she was mad as a brush; the cousins, because they’d always been a close family. She’d been the one to buy the Christmas cards and the birthday cards and congratulate people on various achievements and he’d got the kudos too because his name was on everything. And yet she was the outsider now, while Summer (who in God’s name was called Summer!) was the girlfriend and somehow had more right to be there than her.

  She helped herself to a glass of sparkling water even though she desperately wanted to grab a bottle of wine and drink the lot. But she had to drive home later and it would cap a really horrible day if she was too drunk to get behind the wheel. In any event, she didn’t want her actions to be influenced by alcohol.

  She didn’t want to do something she’d regret.

  Jenny didn’t want to do anything she’d regret either. But she knew she couldn’t let the day go by without saying something. The question was, how much did she want to say? And who did she want to say it to? She pressed her fingers to her forehead as she heard another rumble of thunder in the distance. Like Roisin, she hoped the weather would hold. But she couldn’t help feeling as though a storm was breaking around her already.

  Chapter 13

  There had been a storm on their last day in Italy. The morning was warm and sultry and by the afternoon the heavy air seemed to be physically pressing down on them. Jenny and Pascal had gone to their room in the Villa Maritimo and were lying side by side on the bed when an enormous fork of lightning split the sky and lit up the room. The following crash of thunder was so intense that the entire building seemed to shake.

  Jenny sat upright on the bed and looked out of the narrow window as another lightning bolt snaked its way from the sky to the sea.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

  She was used to the more familiar sheet lightning of Dublin, where the sky was momentarily bright but it was hard to locate any specific source for the light. What she was seeing now, as the lightning continued to rip the sky, was like something out of a horror movie.

  Pascal got up and stood on the balcony.

  ‘Is it safe?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘In what way?’ He glanced around.

  ‘That
railing is made of metal.’

  Pascal laughed. ‘The lightning is a few miles away,’ he said. ‘I think I’m OK.’

  ‘Good,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t want to think my child would grow up without a father.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. C’mere.’ Pascal held out his hand and she slid off the bed and stood beside him.

  ‘I’m afraid of storms,’ she admitted.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When we were small, Dad used to say that a storm was God being angry with us. That he was throwing furniture around the place. I always imagined a wardrobe or something falling from the sky and hitting me on the head.’

  Pascal laughed again. ‘But you’re grown up now. You don’t think that any more.’

  ‘No, but at the back of my mind …’ She shrugged in embarrassment. ‘I know it’s daft. But let’s face it, I’m pregnant and what we did here, what we did in Rome – it’s a sin, it has to be.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jen,’ said Pascal. ‘And regardless, you’re hardly likely to be hit by a celestial wardrobe. What sort of clothes did you imagine God had in there? Shirts and ties?’

  ‘Oh, I know it’s nonsense,’ she told him. ‘I do realise that. It’s just … when you’re brought up to be afraid of God, you can’t help feeling a bit worried even if you think He should understand.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ said Pascal. ‘We’re going home tomorrow as Mr and Mrs Sheehan. What’s to worry about?’

  Jenny looked at him, a doubtful expression on her face.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about at all,’ he said. ‘I promise.’ He kissed her on the lips. Then he led her back to the bed, where they made love to the soundtrack of the rolling thunder followed by a relentless downpour of rain.

  Jenny was remembering it now as she walked into the house. She recalled the strength of Pascal’s arms around her and the weight of his body on hers. She’d been a little afraid then, for the baby. She knew it was OK to make love when you were pregnant, but she was very aware of the fact that there was another person growing inside her and she didn’t want to disturb the baby in any way. She was almost overcome by the responsibility, thinking that she wasn’t adequately prepared for it, worried that she’d make a terrible mess of it. But Pascal had been a calm and soothing influence the whole time. He’d told her she’d be fine. That she’d be a fantastic mother. And that he’d do his best to be an equally fantastic father. Their child would be the luckiest boy or girl in Ireland.