Secrets

She thought back over the details. Dick was in all of them wearing the same beatific smile he famously employed, along with touch, to override the need for much cogent dialogue. In reality, it had irritated her; in last night's dreams it had her fooled. She recalled Dick and Seb together in one scene; that she was running along the pier, coming across the two of them at the end, fishing. Buddies, it appeared. They turned to her and closed in on her and she wasn't entirely sure who kissed her first and who it was kissing her then, and whose were those hands on her breasts, in her hair, grabbing her bum.

Switching on the bedside lamp, Tess dipped into the John Irving paperback that she'd taken from Joe's collection. But drifts of the other dream soon distracted her. Dick again, but this time, Joe too. They weren't in Saltburn. They were crowded with her in the kitchen of the Bounds Green flat. The three of them, pushed against the units. An overriding sense of furtive urgency. Someone, Dick, Joe – she couldn't tell – lifting her onto the work surface. A mouth against hers. A hand between her legs. The feeling of a man's hardness rubbing up against her thigh. One of them taking her hand down to the bulge in his trousers. The feeling of flesh. Her softness. Their firmness. The wetness and the heat. Being about to come.

Tess frowned. She shook her head because she really didn't want to do any more remembering. She didn't want to think about it, because thinking about it was undeniably arousing. That her hand was absent-mindedly between her legs proved the point. The buzz, the release, the sexual attention bestowed on her in the dreams – but she could only chastise herself for being turned on. You should be appalled, she told herself. Because the conclusion to both dreams had been horrible, unimaginable.

Em fending for herself.

Em neglected.

A small distressed baby toddling off down the pier while her mother made out with a surfer and a musician. A tiny tot, alone in the sitting room of a rented flat in Bounds Green, crying while Mummy was having a threesome in the galley kitchen with a musician and a bridge builder.

Tess stared hard at the Loom chair with yesterday's clothes that would have to do for today. What a load of crap. She decided that analysing dreams was as ridiculous as heeding horoscopes.

Mystic Bloody Meg and Sigmund Effing Freud.

This made her smile though still she felt discomfited. If there was meaning to these dreams, what was it exactly? That her desires as a woman, a grown-up, were not compatible with her responsibilities as a mother? That she could be one or the other but not both? In reality she'd all but dispensed with the sexual side of her nature. In the dreams, she'd actively chosen to forsake being a mother. She had heard the baby, seen the baby, been aware of the baby in both – but her lust had ridden roughshod over all sense of maternal duty.

Only stupid dreams.

I am wide awake.

So why am I feeling so wretched?

Because it felt good. I forgot how good it feels to come.

Because it's been a long, long time.

She couldn't afford to consider that these long-dormant cogs, now starting to turn, had come not from dreams, but from events preceding them. Talking about Dick. The realness of Seb. And whatever it was about Joe.

She left the bed to sit cross-legged on the floor, having opened the wardrobe door to see herself in the mirror and give her reflection a stern talking-to.

It doesn't mean anything. Once I had a kinky dream featuring that ugly old bloke who does the weather on TV. It does not mean that I fancy him in reality.

So Seb is cute but that's it. He's about a decade younger than me and lives a life of surf and beaches. And Dick left me high and dry and he's just a stupid boy who thinks he's Jim Morrison but he doesn't even come close.

Tess left the room in a hurry and went to her child's room, chanting to herself ‘Come on Baby Light My Fire’, which was totally inappropriate but it was the only Doors song she could recall just then.

Em was sitting quietly in her cot, bashing the toy lion against a cardboard book, its bead-eye making a satisfying tap. Tess scooped her up and whispered, Emmy Emmy Emmy into her neck.

And I don't fancy Joe. I absolutely cannot fancy Joe. Not just because he can be arrogant and sharp and he takes his beautiful house for granted. But because I'm only his house-sitter. It's like having a stupid crush on the boss. Ridiculous.

‘Aren't you staying around to give me a send-off, then?’ Joe asked an hour or so later, seeing Tess preparing the dog and the child for a walk.

‘Things to do,’ Tess said, busying herself with the zip on Em's cardigan, squatting down on her heels, inadvertently giving Joe an enticing view of the small of her back and beyond. ‘Carpe diem, and all that.’

She was preoccupied but Joe sensed this wasn't caused by a child's zip or a dog in a tangle. Just then, he wanted to crouch beside her, still her hands, say, hey – you OK? But he felt he couldn't very well do that, not least because his departure was imminent.

‘I'll call – if you like,’ he said instead, ‘to let you know when I'll be back.’ He paused. ‘Or just to say hi.’

Tess stopped fiddling, though the dog and child continued with their fidgeting regardless. She looked across and her gaze came to rest at Joe's lower legs. He was standing relaxed, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, looking down at her. He could see the top of her knickers from here. From this advantage point, he thought to himself.

‘OK,’ she said, glancing up at him, wondering why he was smiling like that.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘I'll keep in touch, then.’

She stood. ‘Bye then,’ she said but she loitered. She tickled Em under the chin. ‘Say bye bye to Joe, Em. Bye bye Joe. Say – bye bye.’

But the baby just stared at Joe.

‘Goodbye, Emmeline. Look after Wolf.’ And Joe gave her a little wave that she mimicked.

Ultimately, it was Joe giving them the send-off. He'd be gone by the time they were back.

‘Hey, Tess!’ he called down the driveway. She was just beyond the gate, just about to disappear from view. ‘I'll leave you my mobile number.’ She gave him the thumbs-up.

‘Hey, Tess!’ She turned again. ‘Shall I take yours?’

‘Don't have one,’ she called, ‘not any more.’ She paused. ‘Just call the home phone if you need me.’

Returning to the house, Joe thought he must be losing the plot for thinking how the house seemed deserted without that little lot. Then he scolded himself as a soft sod for again liking the way Tess said ‘home’. She never referred to the Resolution as the house, or your house – nor to the phone as the landline or house phone. Home was the word she always employed, whenever she could. Conversely, he chose not to use it much – the word or the place. He didn't want to hang around; he wanted to be on his way, with his London head on. But still he looked in at Tess's room and Emmeline's before he went. The doors had been closed but he left them ajar; as if inviting the new spirit those rooms now exuded to emanate through the house.

He'd miss them.

For fuck's sake, what was he thinking.

It took the rest of the day for the residual feelings from her dreams to dissipate and by the following morning, Tess felt restored. She also felt more than ready to tackle the tasks she'd set herself. One of which was to keep the doors to Joe's study and bedroom firmly shut.

It was fine and dry and Tess decided to make a start on the boot and utility rooms, taking all the old boots and coats into the garden. She pegged the jackets on the washing line, chucked onto the bonfire heap a waxed jacket so old and neglected that the fabric had cracked, shook out a dusty jumper and decided it still had life in it and just needed a wash. She thought about adding the gumboots to the bonfire pile, so ancient that the rubber had blanched and disintegrated, but she decided to dump them directly in the bin. The same fate awaited the single flip-flop. As it did the golf umbrella that, when opened, rattled and spewed its broken spokes like a science-lab skeleton that had come unscrewed. Anyway, Tess didn't think Joe was the umbrella type. He probably just turned his collar up against inclement weather. Or donned one of those yellow hard hats. She'd come across two already, had tried one on but resisted the urge to fit the straps and take a look.

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