Page 66 of The Secret
“But the email, the texts I sent you. I tried so hard to contact you. Why didn’t you respond?” I say. I can’t believe this is true. It can’tbetrue.
“My father was the number two in the South African government, and I’ve always had to protect my identity. For a long time, I’ve used a different surname. I was never in the public eye, but it just kept any questions and the consequences of that at bay. When he was assassinated, the security services took over everything. Turned out the rebels who killed my father were tracking his communications, and knew who I was, where I was. The security services had evidence, credible evidence, that they were planning to come after my brother and me. They wiped my email account, any record of me being in Zimbabwe, and destroyed my phone, and then flew me straight back to South Africa to a twenty-four-hour security detail and a safehouse. They were worried whoever had killed him had inside information, that it was someone on his team. The whole thing was a mess.”
He has abrother? But I’ll have to come back to that. He never got any of my messages. Over the years I’ve convinced myself he ignored or deleted them, or that he was dead. But just a minute, he still knew where I was.
“Why didn’t you come to find me, explain?”
He runs his hands through his hair. “God, Liss. I wanted to. You don’t know … I was terrified of putting you in danger. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere or contact anyone for ages, nothing that would identify who I was, where I was. I didn’t know who to trust. For over a year, I had no online accounts, no phone.” He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. “They knew I went to New York. I was beside myself. What if they held you hostage, or something worse? What if they were still somehow tracking me and I reached out to you? I couldn’t take that risk.”
He raises his head. “But now the rebels have achieved their objective, which was to get my father’s party out of government, and who knows where that will lead. The Secret Service has told us that the threat is now minimal, and we’ve been back on the farm for five months. I’ve been so desperate to speak to you, to see you. But I …” He blinks up at the ceiling. “I’m still terrified of who I am, who my father was. We moved around different safehouses for two and a half years. I think I’ve got a little paranoid, but also I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you … and I thought there was no chance that you would’ve waited for me. But then you were there at the meeting, and seeing you there … after so long. I just couldn’t leave it.”
“Two and a half years!”
“It’s been like a prison.”
“I was worried you’d died. You disappeared and everything ended with no warning, no explanation. I came to Zimbabwe, dug around at the university and employed a private investigator, but every trail we followed was cold.”
His eyes go wide. “A private investigator?”
I nod, and his eyes close with a pained expression. He reaches out to touch my hand, and grabs my fingers, squeezing tight. “I’m sorry,” he says. “To be honest, I’m relieved you’re still talking to me, that you’re not married.”
“I am actually,” I tease, and his eyes snap wide, zooming in on my finger.
I grin at him, but it dies when I see something in his expression. “I saw a picture on Facebook when you were in the Philippines,” he says, raising an eyebrow, and I nod. “There was a picture of you.” He swallows like it’s painful. “With a guy, a boyfriend.”
Oh my God, Ramesh. The guy who got me through the worst time in my life, who got me over Dan. Who understood my whole story, how in love with another guy I was. Who listened and listened and looked after me anyway. Who picked me up from my lowest ebb and restored my confidence. Who made me think decent guys existed in the world, and I could find one. I remember the picture Dan’s talking about, we’re wrapped around each other. Ramesh took it when he kissed me and tagged me in it.
I look away, swallowing.
“You’re not … you’re not still with him?” Dan croaks.
“No.”
“You looked so happy.” He presses the tips of his fingers against his lips. “I … I started to think that maybe what happened was for the best, that you had moved on and you would be safe with him.” His eyes fill with tears. “I thought maybe this was something you do, Liss. You go abroad and have relationships with guys. You were reluctant to commit, in New York. I … I …” He looks away and whispers, “Despite everything we had, I think I lost my mind a little.”
My throat seizes up. The need for him to understand forces the words out of my mouth:
“After I came back from trying to find you, I lost my mind. My friends realized I was burying myself in Manhattan, and they persuaded me to go away somewhere different, somewhere with no memories. And I came across a voluntary organization that worked in the Philippines, and Ramesh was my guide. The last thing I wanted was any kind of relationship, believe me. But he was the best kind of friend to me, he looked after me in my misery, and I ended up staying for eighteen months. I thought perhaps I could move on with him. I thought you were dead, after all. But it wasn’t right. He pulled me through, restored me to myself, and he was a lovely, lovely guy, but I was never in love with him.”
I reach out and touch his hand. “I’m sorry,” I say.
Dan lifts my fingers to his lips, kisses them, eyes closing with a pained expression. “The thought of you with someone else …” My heart lurches. “… But really, Liss, after all that’s happened, I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.”
I laugh, and he tugs my hand, trying to pull me forward, into him. I shake my head. We still need to talk.
I want to confess.“I feel like I used him. I’m so ashamed of that relationship, but so grateful to him too.”
“Who? Ramesh?”
I nod.
“He listened to me go on and on about you and looked after me anyway. I owe him a debt I can never repay.”
He squeezes my hand.
“He sounds like a good guy. I hate him.”
I laugh.
