Secret Keeping for Beginners Page 3

  There was no response. Tessa knew she should just go in there and wrench the duvet off him, but she couldn’t face it. She’d had to do that to her oldest son the day before. The reaction had not been enjoyable and she still felt a bit peeled from the fan phone call. It was Tom’s turn. There were so many mornings these days when he wasn’t there to do it.

  Going back into the kitchen, she saw there was a big pile of bacon sandwiches already on a plate in the middle of the table and Tom was at the fridge door pulling out ketchup, mustard and other sauces at such high speed, he was practically juggling them.

  He just seemed to move on a different setting from everyone else, she thought. Like a film that was running slightly fast, while the rest of the world lumbered along around him.

  ‘Can you go and wake Finn up, Tom?’ she asked, sitting at the table and reaching for the teapot. ‘I did it yesterday and I’m not feeling strong enough for a nuclear war yet this morning.’

  Tom was already walking out through the kitchen door before she had finished speaking, passing two sleepy-looking boys on the way in, the younger one scratching his tummy, his school shirt coming untucked in the process.

  Tessa was on her feet without thinking about it, kissing his head as she tucked the shirt back in.

  ‘Morning, Mr Scruff,’ she said, ‘would some hot chocolate wake you up?’

  The boy nodded, nuzzling into her like a calf. He was nearly twelve, but still a child, just, the very last thread of it. Sometimes Tessa found it hard to let him out of her sight in case she missed the last moment.

  ‘I’ll have some of that too, please, Mum,’ said the older boy, now at the table with his mouth full of bacon.

  ‘Two hot chocs, for two growing chaps,’ said Tessa, ruffling the older boy’s hair as she went over to the fridge. Archie had already made the transfer to the next stage, his voice now octaves lower than his younger brother’s, but so far he’d stayed pretty nice. She reminded herself not to take it for granted.

  A howl pierced the air from upstairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ yelled an outraged voice, followed by Tom’s laughter. ‘I’m going to do you for child abuse. You can’t just throw water on someone when they’re asleep … It’s illegal.’

  A thunder of feet on the stairs and Tom was back in the kitchen, a big grin on his face.

  ‘Sorry about soaking the bed, Tess,’ he said, squeezing the shoulder of each boy as he passed and sitting down at the head of the table. ‘It was the only way I could think of to make it less attractive to him.’

  ‘Was it that big jug of flowers on the landing dresser?’ asked Tessa.

  Tom nodded. She smiled back at him, shaking her head indulgently as she put mugs of hot chocolate in front of each of her younger sons, and then sat down.

  ‘As long as he gets up, I don’t mind if you set fire to it – but that doesn’t mean you can eat his breakfast as well as your own, Archie,’ she added, taking two bacon sandwiches back from the large pile on his plate and putting them on the clean one next to her.

  ‘Always worth a try though, Arch,’ said Tom in a confidential man-to-man tone.

  Archie grinned back at him, exactly the same gap between his front teeth.

  ‘Now,’ said Tessa, after the two boys had emptied their plates like a plague of really hungry locusts, ‘both of you go and clean your teeth. Heccie, you’ve got PE today, so make sure everything’s in your bag and Arch, don’t forget your music and flute, they’re both on top of the piano.’

  ‘Oh look,’ said Tom, ‘here comes Herman Munster …’

  Tessa glanced around to see her oldest son walking – or rather, skulking – into the kitchen. His hair hung over his face, his school shirt was completely unbuttoned, his tie slung around his neck inside the shirt collar, his trousers barely staying up.

  He looked an utter mess, but Tessa couldn’t help it, her heart fluttered a little. His limbs seemed to have grown out of proportion to the rest of his body, his facial expression could have soured milk, but he was still her baby. Her first born.

  ‘Morning, Finn McChin,’ she said brightly, ever hopeful that overnight he might have turned back into the boy who had once made a batch of biscuits for her all by himself spelling out the words ‘SIMPLY THE BEST’, iced in five different colours.

  ‘Unngggh,’ he replied, sliding into a chair and reaching for his plate of food, without even glancing at her.

  Tom was frowning and looking a little puzzled. He had his right elbow over his head, his hand rubbing the back of his neck; one of his characteristic thinking postures. Tessa tapped his other arm to make him look at her and raised enquiring eyebrows.

  Tom pointed at his own eyes and then at Finn, who was concentrating on getting as much bacon sandwich as possible into his mouth in one go. He had ketchup all over his chin. Amusement broke over Tom’s face.

  ‘Finn,’ he said, ‘look at me for a moment.’

  Finn looked up, his mouth open, large amounts of semi-chewed food on display.

  ‘Are you wearing eye make-up?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Wssanerghaffasnup,’ said Finn, standing up and walking out of the room, still holding the sandwich, trailing ketchup down the front of his shirt as he went.

  ‘He’s wearing make-up,’ said Tom to Tessa.

  ‘He most certainly is,’ said Tessa. ‘I wondered where my favourite eye pencil had gone. Do you think it’s freshly applied or left over from last night? I don’t see how he would have had time this morning … he’s hardly got his clothes on.’

  ‘I think it’s definitely last night’s,’ said Tom, finishing his coffee, ‘reminds me of you after a late one.’

  ‘Shall I go and get my eye make-up remover?’ asked Tessa, play punching her husband on the bicep and finding she was impressed how hard it was, although she knew he had started going to the gym at some poncy health club since he’d been doing that bloody TV show. Just one of the many small ways it had changed him. He used to get enough exercise hauling marble mantelpieces around.

  ‘No,’ said Tom, firmly. ‘Let’s leave the school to deal with it. I’ll be interested to see if it’s still there when he comes home. I’m sure his girlfriends will be queuing up to take it off for him.’

  Only so they can meet you, thought Tessa. Or their mums can. Happy Birthday, Mummy!

  Tom stood up, then leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, hardly pausing en route to the front door.

  ‘I’m driving straight on to the shoot after dropping them off,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘It’s in Wiltshire. Not sure when I’ll be back. They might want me to stay over, I’ve packed a bag. I’ll call you later when I know.’

  Tessa had her mouth open to reply, although she wasn’t sure what she was going to say, but he was already gone. She leaned sideways so she could get a view of the front door, just in time to see Archie and Finn walking out of it. There was a pause, then Hector suddenly appeared back in the kitchen, blazer on, shirt untucked again, rucksack and PE bag over his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around her.

  ‘Bye bye, beautiful Mummy,’ he said, ‘see you later.’

  And then he ran out to catch up with his brothers and father.

  Sudden silence. Tessa slumped back in her chair and was about to reach for the teapot again, when the phone rang. It was the business line again and still only 8.20 a.m., so none of the staff were in yet, but there was still the issue of the possible Regency chimneypiece sale. She had to answer it.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Tim, please,’ said a woman’s voice. Another one.

  At the same moment she heard Tom’s familiar tones shouting from the front door.

  ‘Tess, darling,’ he was yelling, ‘don’t forget we’ve got that shoot for You magazine on Friday. Barney says they want to do some shots in the house but the main pics will be us in the garden. Can you ring your sister and remind her she was going to help you to get it ready? She said she might be able to lend us some of her client’s stuff, remember? The garden
furniture … Barney said the magazine specifically wants some new product in the pics as well as our old gear.’

  The door slammed shut. Tess put her hand up to her forehead. She’d completely forgotten about the shoot and she hadn’t lost the five pounds she’d been going to shift before it. Shame about the bacon sandwich. Oops. And she hadn’t had her roots done either.

  She glanced in the mirror on the wall next to the phone. A harsh line of grey stood out along her parting. Oh Lord. The dashing Tim Chiminey and his ugly fat hag of a wife invite you into their family home. Great. The stalkers could use one of his grates to build a bonfire to burn her on. Which reminded her about the phone she was still holding.

  A tiny voice was coming out of it. ‘Hello? Are you there? I’m ringing for Tim Chiminey,’ it was saying.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Tessa, ‘Mr Chiminey has left the building.’

  Spring photographic studios, London NW5

  Natasha was massaging the model’s hands while Joe wound her hair around big pink rollers.

  ‘Your hair is amazing, Gabriela,’ Joe was saying, smiling at the young woman in the mirror, making as much eye contact with her as he could. ‘It’s so rare to find a natural blonde with your gorgeous honey skin tone.’

  She stared back at him with big green eyes, looking more like a frightened rabbit than the next supermodel sensation she was tipped to become. Joe kept talking.

  ‘I love your ringlet curls, Gabbie darling, but the stylist thinks they won’t work with the simple lines of the clothes we’re shooting today, so she wants me to do smooth volume. Very nineties Linda. Of course you’d look fabulous however I did it. How do you like London so far? Help me out here, Natasha …’ he added, not missing a beat, or turning to look at her.

  ‘Have you had a chance to go shopping yet?’ Joe continued. ‘Go to Liberty, you’ll love it, although at your age, still practically a foetus, all alone in a strange country, you’d probably prefer Topshop. That’s where I buy all my jeans … Mayday! Mayday! Natasha darling, this is Joe, can you read me? Over!’

  Natasha looked up at him and then at Gabriela, plastering a cheery smile on her own face. This was a challenge, even for them. She and Joe had worked on shoots together for over twenty years, becoming one of the most sought-after hair and make-up teams for magazine editorials, fashion shows and luxury-brand ad campaigns. Along the way they’d managed every kind of diva strop and meltdown, but a total lack of a common language was a new one.

  The young models from Russia and the rest of the Eastern bloc all knew a bit of English; some even arrived fluent. This poor little mite, from a remote part of Brazil, didn’t seem to know a word and the interpreter booked to accompany her on the shoot hadn’t turned up.

  ‘I’m doing what I can, Joe, my darling,’ said Natasha, giving Gabriela’s hand a friendly squeeze. ‘I rang Storm just now and they said the interpreter had accidentally gone to the wrong studio and is on her way here – but hold on, I’ve had an idea …’

  She grabbed her tote bag and pulled out a small speaker cube, which she set up on the work top, then she fiddled with her phone for a few moments until some Latin music, sung in a language Natasha was fairly sure was Brazilian Portuguese, started playing.

  Gabriela’s eyes widened in recognition.

  ‘Você gostou desta música?’ Natasha read from the translation app on her phone, trying to muster some attempt at the accent.

  The girl’s face broke into a smile, which Natasha could see was likely to adorn many future magazine covers.

  ‘Sim!’ she said. ‘A minha avó adora esta canção.’

  ‘Any idea, Joe?’ asked Natasha, nodding and smiling at Gabriela enthusiastically, as though she had understood every word and was delighted by them.

  ‘Not a Fanny Adams,’ he said, also smiling, ‘but whatever she said, I think it’s good. And you’re a genius. I can’t understand why you aren’t more successful …’

  ‘Oh, shut up fish face,’ said Natasha. She tapped her phone again. ‘Você gostava de algum café ou água?’ she asked.

  ‘Sim, obrigada,’ said Gabriela, nodding keenly and looking much happier.

  ‘I think that means “Yes to coffee or water”, don’t you?’ said Natasha, beaming back at the reflection in the mirror. What a fresh new beauty.

  ‘Eu gostaria tanto, por favor,’ added Gabriela.

  ‘The girl’s got manners, whatever she’s saying,’ said Joe. ‘I definitely heard a “please” in there. Bueno, chiquita,’ he added, patting her shoulder. ‘Sim …’

  ‘I’ll get both,’ said Natasha, suddenly feeling the need for a strong shot of caffeine herself – she’d come straight from Heathrow off the JFK red-eye. ‘Uno momento, Gabriela. S’later, Joey boy.’

  She patted Joe’s shoulder as she headed out of the dressing room to find the catering team, but they were still setting up, so she ran down to the reception to ask if they could direct her to the nearest café.

  The woman at the desk told her the closest one was in Kentish Town, a good fifteen-minute walk away, and offered to make her a ‘cuppa’ in the staff kitchen instead.

  Natasha smiled at the word. She never heard it living in New York, and it reminded her so much of her English mum and her slight northern accent, which everyone had thought so quaint when Natasha had been growing up in Australia.

  As soon as she was reminded of those days, other thoughts started crowding into Natasha’s mind. Remembering how she and her two older sisters had been suddenly wrenched away from their happy life in Brisbane when her parents had split up, and shipped off with their mum to live in England, a strange, grey, damp place Natasha had never even visited before.

  Until she’d decided to move back to Australia again to be with her dad, leaving her mum and sisters behind, deafening herself to their pleas to stay, to the point where she’d almost convinced herself she didn’t care.

  Anyway, that was all a long time ago, Natasha told herself, taking the tray of mugs and glasses from the receptionist and heading back upstairs to the studio.

  No point going back over all that now. She’d been young – only fourteen – and very confused when she made that choice, as her shrink was always telling her. Besides, New York was a lot closer to Tunbridge Wells than Brisbane had been, and she always saw her mum when she came over to Europe for work, which was frequently with the ready-to-wear and couture shows twice a year each, as well as all the editorial and advertising jobs.

  She was going to see her mum the day after next, in fact, and then they were both heading over to Tessa’s to spend a lovely weekend with the rest of the family, before she went over to Paris for a big designer ad campaign. Time to leave that teenage guilt-trip behind and concentrate on her work.

  Walking back into the dressing room to see the interpreter still hadn’t arrived, she was going to need all her wits to get through it. After raising her eyebrows complicitly at Joe, she put the tray down on the table and held the milk and sugar up to Gabriela, with an enquiring look on her face.

  Gabriela pointed at the sugar, nodding, then held up three fingers.

  ‘Nice work, Tashie, baby …’ sang Joe, rougly in tune with the samba track now playing through the speaker, breaking off from his rollers to do a few steps, a spin and a shimmy. ‘Olé!’ he shouted.

  Gabriela laughed and Natasha turned up the volume a bit then joined in the dancing. Tucking his comb behind his ear, Joe put his hand out, pulled Gabriela from her seat and then twirled her around in some fairly convincing Latino moves.

  ‘Dancing with the Stars, are we?’ said Natasha. ‘Pig Latin section …’

  ‘Anything to get through the day,’ said Joe, as he let Gabriela down in a dip. ‘In the universal language of camp.’

  ‘Just try not to drop her,’ said Natasha as the song came to an end.

  Joe bowed to Gabriela and gestured for her to go back to her seat. Natasha glanced at the young woman’s face in the mirror as she settled herself. The frightened
bunny had gone; she was looking relaxed and much more confident. Result. They were well on their way to getting this homesick little thing through the shoot feeling fantastic, so there would be beautiful pictures of her for Vogue, which was what they were all there for.

  Now that Gabriela was more comfortable, Natasha felt she could get on with sorting out her kit, ready to start her part of the job. She normally had an assistant to do it for her, but she’d decided to travel alone on this trip. She had two local ones lined up in Paris for the big job the following week.

  She quite enjoyed this ritual, on the rare occasions she had time to do it any more. It was a great opportunity to reconnect with all her products in some fundamental way. Sometimes she got great ideas just from handling it all.

  Maybe she should give up having assistants altogether, she thought, as she checked over her foundations, stored in her case in strict tone order and subdivided by texture: matte, translucent, whisper light, full metal jacket.

  She held up one of her sheerest bases next to Gabriela’s cheek to judge the colour.

  ‘Don’t think you’ll be needing the full kabuki for this face, do you?’ said Joe, breaking into another dance move, simultaneously juggling three rollers, which made Gabriela giggle.

  ‘She hardly needs any base,’ said Natasha, scrutinising the immaculate golden skin with a scattering of freckles across her cheeks. ‘With the very sculptural hair you’re planning and the severe clothes, which will look quite oversized on her frame, I think a bare face could look really strong. Just let her eyes shine out like beacons. White liner inside the eye rims. Maybe a coloured mascara? Green …’

  Joe nodded. ‘I am loving the sound of that,’ he said. ‘She’s so beautiful, she’s almost an alien.’

  Natasha grinned at him. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ she said.

  They high-fived, then Joe turned to Gabriela and high-fived her as well, making her feel part of it all, even if she didn’t understand a word they were saying. She laughed again, gazing at Joe with the expression of a little girl looking at her favourite naughty uncle.