I Know Your Secret - Ruth Heald Page 0,10

into the drawer, to the bottom, to the envelope containing the photos. My name’s scrawled on the front in messy, rushed handwriting, and in the corner there’s a first-class stamp, the postage mark smudged and illegible. It had rained that day and I had been struggling to manhandle Charlie into his raincoat to take him to preschool when it had dropped through the letter box. I was running late, and I’d put it to the side, but it had played on my mind as I dropped Charlie off. I wondered if it was someone from the past, a teacher from the school where I used to work who had tracked me down, or a friend from my counselling training. By the time I got back home, I’d been excited, eager to see the contents of the envelope. I’d practically torn it open before I’d even started brewing my morning cup of coffee.

The photos had fallen out the wrong way up and for a brief second I’d hoped they were photos of Nick, rediscovered on someone’s memory stick. Pictures that would give me another piece of the puzzle, return another part of him to me.

I turned the photos over. But they weren’t of Nick. There were of Richard. I felt a jolt of disappointment.

And then I looked at the first image more closely. Richard wasn’t alone; he was walking side by side with a woman, her back to the camera. I didn’t recognise her. In the next one the girl was still faceless, but Richard’s image was clear, his arms encircling her.

My heart almost stopped. Was it a mistake? Not what it seemed?

I turned to the third photo. Once again the man was clearly Richard. And this time the woman had her head tilted back. They were locked in a kiss.

Six

Danielle

I rub moisturiser into my face, slowly working it into the damaged skin of my burn. The doctor told me to do it twice a day, but I often do it more. I want it to heal as quickly as possible, so I can return to the me I was before the fire a year ago. I grab a glass of water from the bathroom and knock back one of the antidepressants I took from Beth’s house. I’ll need it to get through today. I apply light make-up, avoiding the burnt skin. I try to smile at myself in the mirror, but I can’t quite manage it. All I can see is the slightly distorted edge of my lip and my rough, injured cheek.

‘Ready to go?’ Peter says, coming up behind me.

I nod. A year ago I would have asked him how I looked. But I don’t dare to now. I sometimes wonder if, when he suggested we have a break, it was because of my scars, because he couldn’t bear to look at me anymore. We split up nine months after the accident. Time enough for people to think it wasn’t because of my injuries, so he didn’t look like the bad guy. But I still wonder if my scars were the real reason.

I push the thoughts away. All that matters is that we’re back together now. We walk down the street together and I take his hand, feel the warmth of his fingers interlocking with mine. We should have worn gloves. But I never look like I’m dressed for the weather anymore. Despite the cold wind and the grey skies I wear a wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses to keep the sun off my fragile skin. I hate that it draws attention to me, makes people glance at me curiously. And then they see the scars and look away.

I walk to the Underground station like I do every day to commute to work. On the weekday commute everyone minds their own business, nobody stares. But at the weekend, the tube is different, full of tourists and curious children. When I get on the train with Peter, the kids point at me and ask questions of their parents who flush and tell them to be quiet.

I take my hat off, push my sunglasses up to my forehead and sit down, leaning into Peter’s body on the seat beside me. He runs his hand through my hair and kisses the top of my head.

‘Nervous?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I admit. This is the first social event we’ve been to since the fire.

‘I am too,’ he says, and I wonder why. Is he ashamed of me? Of the way I look now?

I lean away