Tell Me No Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page A

auditioning for a part in God’s play. Confused tourists climb in and then out of their macs, take sweaters off, remark at the heat from the sun, then twenty minutes later rummage in rucksacks to find layers to cover up their goose bumps.
    The water never grows warm here. It just doesn’t. That makes wetsuits a great invention. We never had them when we were young and as children we would run into the sea, pull our arms into ourselves, shriek, dance in the waves, hopping from one frozen foot to the other. But what we always have is wind and already some windsurfers are about a hundred yards from the shore; their sails point upward, slashes of primary colours run across the white cloth like the brushstrokes on a child’s painting.
    It’s an optimistic sky and I feel like an optimistic me. Thoughts chase around my head – Orla, Ella, Ed, a triumvirate of worries – but I don’t hang on to them. Instead I enjoy the walk, one foot in front of the other, Murphy at my heels and the sea breeze buffing my cheeks.
    As I turn the last corner I see Monica placing her briefcase and jacket into the boot of her car. I slow my steps to a dawdle. It’s cowardly, I know, but I hope she might be in the driving seat and away before I am close enough for conversation.
    Monica is one of those women who illuminates my own inadequacies. She is a successful and popular GP. She dresses beautifully: silk blouses and well-tailored suits. She does Pilates, she runs marathons, she plays tennis and golf. She is clear, crystal clear, about what she has and what she wants. She is organised. Her children never forget their lunch boxes or PE kit and homework is always completed on time. And she isn’t confused about how to bring them up. She knows exactly what they need: love, guidance and opportunities. She doesn’t drink more than one glass of wine in an evening, she limits coffee to two cups a day and she always chooses the low-fat muffin.
    We have a long history together, beginning in primary school when I stood, brand new and alone, in my new red pinafore, pulling at the white, starched collar around my neck. It was noisy. Boys jostled and pushed into the queue. My tummy hurt and I didn’t like the look of the school dinners – lumpy mashed potatoes, cabbage that made me shiver inside my skin and an enormous metal container of oily sardines.
    I wanted to cry. Monica made room beside her on the bench. She patted the space and gestured for me to sit next to her. I felt gratitude swell up through my chest and empty on to my face in a grateful smile. Then she told me that my shoes needed cleaning and I should make sure I did it that evening. Perhaps I even needed new ones?
    That’s Monica. What she gives with one hand she takes away with the other.
    I see that she isn’t in any hurry this morning. In fact she’s waiting for me. As I draw close she turns to me, smiling into the sun. ‘Hi, Grace. Congratulations are in order, I hear.’
    I shake my head. ‘How come?’
    â€˜Euan tells me you have another commission?’
    â€˜Oh, that.’ I nod like I’m just remembering. ‘Margie Campbell.’
    â€˜Yes, Margie.’ She runs a hand over the lavender hedge. Murphy thinks she’s about to pat him and moves in, his tail wagging. She pushes him aside and dead-heads the lavender with quick, deft strokes. ‘She’s a great one, Margie. Has a real sense of community. She likes to support local artists.’ She looks up at me. ‘For better or worse.’
    â€˜Mmm. She does.’ I smile straight back at her.
    â€˜Tom’s off school today. He was sick last night so he’s upstairs in bed.’ She opens her car door. ‘Don’t let Euan forget about him.’
    â€˜I won’t.’
    â€˜And if he perks up have Euan remind him that he hasn’t done his piano practice.’
    â€˜Okay.’ I open the gate and walk through