Every Little Secret, page 12
‘Of course I do.’
‘You think Kaia needs protecting from me.’
‘I just want to spend the day with my family.’ She steels herself to look at him, then searches his eyes for clues: guilt, discomfort, annoyance at her ruining his plans to have Kaia to himself. But there’s only sadness and disappointment there.
‘Whatever, Grace,’ he says, and disappears out of the room.
Chapter 22
Kaia dips underneath the glass display unit and her head disappears into the pop-up viewing area. So Grace focuses on her daughter’s feet instead. Kaia is pivoting on the toes of her Nike trainers, her purple-edged heels swaying left and right. It’s something she’s done since she could walk. A sign that she’s either excited or nervous. And it’s such a relief to know that today – finally – it’s excitement that’s fuelling her endearing little tic.
‘What can you see up there?’ she calls out.
‘A huge, hairy spider,’ Kaia exclaims with awe. ‘And his legs are bright blue. I want to stroke him.’
A grin spreads across Grace’s face as she absorbs Kaia’s enthusiasm. It’s been too long. But she’s read the plaque next to the display and the blue baboon tarantula doesn’t sound like the most endearing companion. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘Shall we go and see the fish now?’ Marcus suggests. ‘They’ve added a new section to Coral Kingdom apparently; it sounds really cool, Kaia.’ He’s trying to appear upbeat too, but Grace can hear the growing impatience rumbling under the surface. He’d suggested Coral Kingdom when they first arrived at the London Aquarium, and Kaia had responded by asking to visit the Rainforest Adventure instead. Marcus had tried to convince her otherwise, reminded her about the stingrays splashing in the open pool and the sharks prowling around the three-storey central tank, but she’d claimed that the poisonous spiders and red-bellied piranhas were more fun. Grace had solved the impasse by suggesting a half an hour time limit in the rainforest and then moving on. They’ve now been there almost an hour and Marcus is getting restless.
‘Daddy’s mad with me,’ Kaia announces as she ducks back from underneath the display.
‘No, I’m not,’ Marcus responds, although his tone suggests otherwise.
‘Are you going to hit me again?’
Marcus’s eyes dart around the room. Small groups of people wander around, but they’re just silhouettes. The lights are so low that they’re almost in darkness, save for the glow from the displays. He grabs Kaia by the shoulders and pulls her towards him. ‘Stop saying that,’ he growls.
‘Why?’
‘I would never hurt you.’
‘You’re hurting me now.’
Grace looks at Marcus’s hands. Even in the gloom she can see his knuckles whitening with the effort of holding on. ‘Let go of her,’ she whispers.
Marcus looks down at his hands as though they belong to someone else, then releases his grip and pushes them in his pockets. Like he’s neutralising a weapon, Grace can’t help thinking. Kaia takes a couple of steps backwards, but not towards her, Grace notices. Is this the price she’s paying for not believing her daughter?
Marcus turns to Grace next, his jaw set with anger. ‘Jesus, Grace, you’re making out like I’m an abusive father now.’
‘Well, are you?’ The words just tumble out. She regrets them instantly; she doesn’t want to have this conversation in here. But it’s too late. He’s staring at her, the few lighter flecks in his brown eyes flickering in the darkness.
‘No, I’m fucking not, Grace.’ It’s a whisper, but he spits it out with venom. ‘I can’t believe you’d ask me that. After everything I’ve done for you and Kaia.’
Grace looks around the room. There are a couple of other families in here, but they seem captivated by the creatures on display, not interested in a domestic dispute between a family they don’t know. ‘It’s not me saying it though, is it? It’s Kaia. So either she’s a liar, or you’re hurting her.’
Marcus turns away and rests his forehead on the thick glass pane of a display. A colony of ants scurry along the mock rainforest floor, each carrying a tiny section of leaf, seemingly oblivious to its enormous weight on their shoulders. Grace thinks about the weight she and Marcus carry – have carried for so long – and wonder if its enormity has proven too much for her husband.
‘I don’t know why she’s saying it,’ he admits, his voice muffled against the glass. ‘Why her concussion has translated into hating me. But I can’t lose your trust. You promised me.’ He pulls away from the display and turns to face her. ‘Think of everything I’ve done for you, and Kaia. We can’t let her behaviour come between us.’
His words make Grace feel sick. Surely a child should always come first? It’s their job to protect Kaia, not each other. She turns to look at their daughter, now staring intently at the dwarf crocodile display, searching for their bulging eyes in the murky water. ‘She’s our daughter,’ she growls, a warning shot.
Marcus looks angry for a moment but then his face drops, a hint of shame spreading across it. He turns back towards the display. ‘I know you’re looking for Coco again.’
‘What?’ His accusation has knocked her off guard.
‘I saw it in your search history. I wasn’t spying on you,’ he adds. ‘I borrowed your laptop to look at the opening times for the aquarium and came across it.’
Grace doesn’t know what to say. She takes a hairband off her wrist and twists her hair inside it. Maybe she would have told Marcus about her search eventually, explained it calmly, why she needs Coco by her side. Why they both do. But not now, not here.
‘Why are you looking for her, Grace?’
It’s stuffy in the dark, windowless room and it makes Grace feel claustrophobic. She wants to walk away. From him, from everything. But that’s not what Grace Windsor does. She toughs it out. So instead, she flicks her head and turns to face him. ‘I know Coco is a stranger to us now,’ she starts. ‘And Kaia is a stranger to her.’
‘Exactly, I don’t think it’s a good idea to try and find her after all this time.’
‘But she was my best friend Marcus, more like a sister really. I’ve never been that close to anyone since Coco, except you.’
‘And you trust her more than me now?’
‘There are so many people giving me their opinion: you, Kaia’s teacher, my mum, Harriet …’ Grace pauses. She can’t let Marcus know she’s spoken to Josh. ‘And Kaia, of course. I want to talk to someone who’s known me forever; and who knows you too,’ she adds cautiously.
‘You think Coco’s going to have the answer? What will she say? Sure, Grace, Kaia’s bound to be fucked up after her start in life, or yes, I always suspected Marcus was a child beater. Jesus, Grace, she hasn’t seen us for over seven years, Kaia was a tiny baby for Chrissakes. How the hell is she going to make that kind of judgement?’
‘She was there,’ Grace whispers. ‘That night you hit me.’
Marcus swivels away from her, pushes his hand through his hair. ‘Shit, Grace, that again? How many times do I have to apologise? Promise it will never happen again?’
‘You split my lip.’
‘You took the flowers, accepted my apology. You agreed to go on a fucking date with me. Why are you bringing it up now?’
‘Why do you think?’ Grace spits out. ‘If you’re hurting Kaia—’
‘I’m not.’
‘—and social services come for you—’
‘They won’t.’
‘—then they’ll come for me too, won’t they? Everything we’ve done to protect our family, every lie we’ve told. It will all be for nothing. Because they’ll ransack our life until they find out the truth.’
‘God, Grace. Kaia is making it all up! I don’t know why, maybe it’s just her concussion talking. You have to trust me!’
‘How can I though? When I know first-hand how good a liar you are?’
He freezes. Stares at her like she’s betraying him. Perhaps she is. She bites her lip and looks away.
‘You think finding Coco will help?’
‘I need her, Marcus.’
‘You’ll be opening a can of worms,’ he whispers.
‘I don’t care.’
Marcus turns to look at Kaia, then back at Grace. ‘Don’t let Coco come between us, Grace.’
Grace manages a tiny smile, then walks over to Kaia, wondering who Marcus means by ‘us’.
Chapter 23
COCO
2011
Coco wonders whether it would be appropriate to have a cigarette. Not here, obviously. But out there, on the balcony. Make her little contribution to the pollution party. She’s just not sure if she can walk. She sighs, stretches out her arms, then wriggles down the bed. Time for a status check. Toes work, calves and thighs clench and relax well enough. There’s a whole load of pain burning between her legs, but that’s to be expected, under the circumstances.
Satisfied that she can make it to standing, she pushes back the cover and drops her legs over one side. Hospital beds always sit a bit higher than regular ones, saving nurses’ backs probably, but she finds solid ground eventually. With the soles of her feet firmly planted on the cool tiled floor, she twists her upper body and drags it into a sitting position. A wave of nausea rises, but quickly settles. This is going better than expected. She takes a deep breath, and pushes off. She staggers more than walks, but manages to retrieve the packet of Marlboro Lights she stashed in her overnight bag en route, and slides open the door. She breathes in the warm, stagnant air.
The balcony is tiny, less than two metres square, but there’s just enough room for a small table and one chair. She lowers her battered body until it reaches hard plastic and stares out across the body of water cantering along in the breeze. The Chao Phraya River is a deep chasm that runs from the centre of the country through Bangkok and out into the Gulf of Thailand. It’s not a peaceful view. Ferries, river buses and long-tail boats chug up and down; motors drone, tourists snap pictures, drivers shout out to one another. But at least it takes her mind off things, like what the fuck she’s going to do next. She pulls a cigarette out of the packet, flicks down the lighter, and takes a long, satisfying draw.
She’s been in Bangkok for over four months now and has gradually discovered that the only way to find tranquillity in the city is inside one of the Buddhist temples. Not the well-known ones, like the Temple of the Emerald Buddha at the Grand Palace, where tourists congregate and guides try to herd them around with interesting facts and warnings not to touch, take photos of, or turn your back on Buddha’s image too soon. But there are others tucked away, still glorious in gold and marble, but without the crowds. Coco has spent more time wandering temples over the last few months than she would ever have imagined at the start of the year, hoping some higher power would have the solution that she – a mere human – couldn’t figure out. Although in the end, it had been her who’d crafted a plan.
A not-too-gentle knock at the balcony door startles her and she whips her head round to see who the culprit is. She sighs. Chailai is standing on the other side of the glass, hands on her narrow hips, a look of surprise laced with disapproval on her beautiful face.
‘Yes, yes, I’m coming,’ Coco mumbles, leaning forward. There’s a glass ashtray on the table, helpfully provided for fallen women like her, and she twists the remnants of her cigarette into it. Then she pushes off the chair, wonders how her 22-year-old body can feel like it’s packing up already, and smiles at her maternity nurse. Then she takes one last look at the busy river, tries to suck some energy from it, and steps back inside her room.
‘Sorry to disturb you, miss, but I think your baby needs feeding.’
Coco looks towards the bed and the rectangular cot attached to its side. She shifts her gaze to the creature inside, eyes closed, snuffling and gnawing on one minuscule fist. Like some mad biological sorcery, her bloated breasts tense and pull at the sight. She’s both appalled and intrigued by the primitive behaviour her body has demonstrated over the last two days. To Coco, womanhood is about relentless hair removal and finding a bra that gives you cleavage. Not staring at a tiny baby and feeling like its mother.
Chailai must sense her reluctance because she glides over to the cot – that’s how she moves, like a ballerina performing adagio – and lifts the baby out. ‘You can sit in the chair, miss. I can pass her to you.’
She could refuse. Chailai wouldn’t question her decision – that’s not what happens when you tip someone a month’s salary. The nurse would make up a bottle with one of those powdered milks, a blend of nutrients scientifically proven to keep your baby healthy, or so the adverts say. Coco suspects her own provision isn’t as impressive. A diet of Pad Thai, bananas and Singha beer (just one per night, she’s not completely irresponsible) isn’t likely to produce gold-standard breast milk. But weirdly, even with the pain of her nipples being sucked by a Dyson in disguise, she’s quite enjoying feeding her daughter.
Coco sinks into the armchair and reaches her hands up. Chailai has wrapped the infant in a soft yellow blanket and Coco feels her warmth as she positions the baby in the crook of one arm. Then she leans back against the plump cushions and lets her child forage for what she needs. Out of the two of them, it’s the little one who seems to know what she’s doing the most.
‘So today you go home?’ Chailai asks, smoothing down the ruffled sheets, then perching on the side of the bed.
‘This afternoon.’ Coco turns towards the balcony again. She’ll be glad to be out of here; however many pictures of flowers you hang up, you can’t mask the smell of a hospital room. But going back to her guesthouse means she’ll be on her own with a baby. And not a clue what to do, either now or later.
Except that’s not true, of course. She knows exactly what she’s going to do, what she needs to do to make everything all right again. It’s a plan she came up with in one of the temples, under the watchful eye of a golden Buddha statue. A plan she set in motion when she booked her all-inclusive childbirth package at Thonburi Hospital.
It’s a good plan.
‘Well, I’m going to miss you. You have made me smile a lot these past days. You know, I don’t think it matters that this baby doesn’t have a daddy when she has a mummy like you, Miss Grace.’ Then Chailai beams her widest smile, and slips out of the room.
Chapter 24
Coco peels another banana and shifts her position on the bed. The sun is blazing outside, but she’s got the air con just right and the half-pulled curtains are keeping the glare off the TV screen. The baby is fed, changed and now asleep beside her. Harry Potter is doing his bit to fight dark magic on the screen in front of her, even if the Deathly Hallows Part Two DVD that she picked up at the Khaosan Road market the day before is proving to be dodgy, the swaying heads of cinemagoers along the bottom of the picture giving a clue to its circumspect provenance. Coco isn’t drunk, high, or sizzling with excitement about how her night might unfold. And yet – quite incredibly – she feels content.
As the soft fruit melts in her mouth, she watches Harry head towards the Forbidden Forest for his showdown with Voldermort. He’ll come out on top though, Coco decides, unsure why that matters. Except he doesn’t. The ugly bald guy casts some killing curse and Harry is out for the count. As Coco watches Harry’s still body, tears well in her eyes. She shakes her head and blinks. Why is she crying over a movie? Why does she care about a fictional character? The baby lets out a whimper, as though reminding her why. You’re a mother now; you’re not sane anymore. Coco smiles and strokes her daughter’s belly, smoothing away any dream monsters or, more likely, rumbling wind. Then she rests her head back against the pillow and, with a sense of satisfaction, watches Harry leap out of Hagrid’s arms, very much alive.
Coco always assumed she’d be a shit mother. She’s read enough women’s magazines to know about that cycle. Abused child becomes abuser, detached parents raise emotionally defunct kids. On that score, Coco was destined to be a reluctant mother at best. So it’s been a surprise, really. Perhaps David and Martina did Coco a favour by dumping her on another family, lining up a much better role model in parenting skills. Maybe it’s Faith’s influence that has made Coco fall head over heels in love with her daughter.
Which is why she’s been putting off the next stage of her plan.
In that hotel room in Phuket at New Year, she had no idea about the curve ball that life would throw at her this year, so she’s not quite sure why she stole Grace’s passport, while Marcus was still in the bathroom washing sand off her rum-addled best friend. Perhaps Coco’s parents’ letter had spooked her enough to want the comfort blanket of a second identity, the powerful currency that a British passport brings in a fledgling economy like Thailand’s. Or maybe, after five and a half years apart, Coco just wanted a memento of her best friend to carry with her for a while.
She hadn’t thought for a moment that Grace’s passport would be the solution to her pregnancy problem. But that’s how things turned out.
With an extra twenty thousand Thai baht in her pocket, Chailai had been happy to overlook the clumsy overlay of Coco’s headshot into the passport – doctored by a Canadian drug dealer Coco had charmed. Chailai had faxed it through to the local Tessaban for them to issue the baby’s birth certificate, with the logo of Bangkok’s finest hospital adding much-needed cachet. Coco knew that Grace would have reported her passport stolen, so she spent the next couple of hours worrying that the cancelled passport number would set off some alert. But luckily that detail hadn’t made its way to the local Thai authorities, and Coco was presented with her Jang Gert later that day. Mother’s name, Grace Windsor. Father’s name, unknown.
She called the baby Kaia. The most popular girl’s name in New Zealand, according to Google. It was all part of her well-thought-through plan.
The problem is, she’s not sure it’s such a good plan anymore.
