The Husband’s Secret

eyes that Janie had seen in those terrifying few moments before she died. Those lovely strong hands that had cupped the soft, fragile heads of Cecilia’s baby daughters were the same hands that he held around Janie’s neck.
    ‘Your mother knows,’ she told him. ‘She recognised her rosary beads in the newspaper pictures. She basically told me that a mother would do anything for her children, and that I should do the same for my children and pretend it never happened. It was creepy. Your mother is creepy .’
    It felt like crossing a line to say that. John-Paul did not take criticism of his mother kindly. Cecilia normally tried to respect that, even while it annoyed her.
    John-Paul sank down on the side of the bath, knocking the handtowel off the rail with his knees in the process. ‘You really think she knows?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Cecilia. ‘So there you go. Mummy’s golden boy really can get away with murder.’
    John-Paul blinked, and Cecilia almost considered apologising, before she remembered that this wasn’t an ordinary disagreement about packing the dishwasher. The rules had changed. She could be just as narky as she pleased.
    She picked up her toothbrush again and began to clean her teeth with harsh, mechanical movements. Her dentist had told her just last week that she was brushing too hard, wearing away the enamel. ‘Hold your toothbrush with your fingertips, like the bow of a violin,’ he’d said, demonstrating. Should she get another electric toothbrush, she’d wondered, and he’d said he wasn’t a believer, except for the old and arthritic, but Cecilia had said she liked the nice clean feeling it gave her, and oh, it had all genuinely mattered , she had been completely involved in that conversation, a conversation about the maintenance of her teeth, back then, back in last week.
    She rinsed and spat and put the toothbrush away and picked up the towel that John-Paul had knocked onto the floor and put it back on the railing
    She glanced at John-Paul. He flinched.
    ‘The way you look at me now,’ he said. ‘It’s . . .’ He stopped and took a shaky breath.
    ‘What do you expect?’ asked Cecilia, astounded.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ said John-Paul. ‘I’m so sorry for putting you through this. For making you part of it. I’m such an idiot for writing that letter. But I’m still me, Cecilia. I promise you. Please don’t think I’m some evil monster. I was seventeen, Cecilia. I made one terrible, terrible mistake.’
    ‘Which you never paid for,’ said Cecilia.
    ‘I know I didn’t.’ He met her eyes unflinchingly. ‘I know that.’
    They stood in silence for a few moments.
    ‘Shit!’ Cecilia slammed her hand to her head. ‘Fuck it.’
    ‘What is it?’ John-Paul reeled back. She never swore. All these years there had been a Tupperware container of bad language sitting off to the side in her head and now she’d opened it and all those crisp, crunchy words were lovely and fresh, ready to be used.
    ‘Easter hats,’ she said. ‘Polly and Esther need fucking Easter hats for tomorrow morning.’

6 April 1984
    Janie very nearly changed her mind when she looked out the window of the train and saw John-Paul waiting for her on the platform. He was reading a book, his long legs stuck out in front of him, and when he saw the train pulling in he stood up and stuck the book in his back pocket and with a sudden, almost furtive movement he smoothed down his hair with the palm of his hand. He was gorgeous .
    She got up from her seat, holding the pole for balance, and slung her bag over her shoulder.
    It was funny, the way he’d smoothed down his hair; it was an insecure gesture for a boy like John-Paul. You’d almost think that he was nervous about seeing Janie, that he was worried about impressing her.
    ‘Next stop Asquith, then all stations to Berowra.’
    The train clattered to a stop.
    So this was it. She was going to tell him that she couldn’t see him any more. She could have stood him up, just left him waiting for her, but she wasn’t that type of girl. She could have telephoned him, but that didn’t seem right either. And besides, they’d never called each other. Both of them had mothers who liked to lurk about when they were on the phone.
    (If only she could have emailed or texted him, that would have solved everything, but mobile phones and the internet were still in the future.)
    She’d been thinking that this would be unpleasant and that maybe John-Paul’s pride would