Close My Eyes (29 page)

‘The timing fits,’ Lorcan says. ‘Two hours to drive back to London’s about right.’

‘So what did he do at this hotel?’ I ask. ‘It could have been a business meeting.’

‘It’s not that kind of place,’ Bernard says.

‘How do you know he stayed in his room all that time?’ Lorcan adds.

‘I was in the hotel lobby or the restaurant all afternoon. And they both overlook the front of the hotel, so I was watching the car park almost the whole time too. The hotel is in the
middle of nowhere. If Mr Loxley went anywhere he’d have taken his car and I’d have seen.’

‘He could have got a taxi,’ I suggest.

‘No record of any taxis leaving that afternoon,’ Bernard says. ‘They keep a log and I made some excuse and got them to check. Anyway, I’m certain I’d have seen Mr
Loxley if he’d left the building.’

‘Well, maybe someone came to him, then.’ I blush, my mind racing ahead over the ramifications of what I’ve just said. There’s usually only one reason why men spend
anonymous afternoons in out-of-the-way hotel rooms. And yet surely Art can’t have been unfaithful to me? Surely, if he had, I would know?

Bernard blushes too. ‘I suppose it’s possible that someone did slip up to see him when I was in the restaurant, but I don’t think it’s very likely. It’s a small
place and definitely no one else checked in the whole time I was there.’

He gets up to go to the bathroom and I lean back on Lorcan’s sofa. I can’t hide from the evidence any longer. Art was in a hotel when he said he was in a meeting. I press my fingers
into my forehead and close my eyes. How can I trust anything he says now? It all adds up . . . all the suspicious behaviour: the fact that someone called him twelve times in one day and he
didn’t even mention it; the way he shredded all the papers about Beth and made a payment to a debt company just after she was born – which, for some reason, Hen knows about, but which
Art chose to keep from me. In fact,
all
the conversations with Hen. And then, most terrible of all, there’s the CCTV footage from the Fair Angel hospital showing Art with our baby.
I’m certain, now, that Lorcan and Bernard are right to dismiss Art’s claims that the film is a fake. If it could be proved false, why would anyone want to steal it and threaten me?

I remember my resolution to focus only on the future . . . only on finding Beth . . . but the overwhelming feeling in my heart right now is betrayal. How can Art have done any of this?

There’s a creak on the floor in front of me. I look up. Lorcan has squatted in front of me. He holds my gaze.

‘We will find Beth,’ he says.

We look at each other for a long moment.

‘I want to go to the hotel,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I want to find out what Art does there . . . see if it’s connected to Beth—’ My voice
cracks.

Lorcan checks his watch. ‘Okay, we’ll set off in the morning. It’s too late now – we can’t arrive in the middle of the night.’

I nod, then look along the corridor to where Bernard is coming back from the bathroom.

‘I want to go via my house in the morning.’ I lower my voice. ‘After Art’s gone to work.’

‘Why?’

Bernard walks into the living room.

‘I’d like to give you something for trying to help me,’ I say. ‘I know it was on Lucy’s mind, about your two kids still at home and . . .’ I stammer to a
halt, not wanting to embarrass him.

Lorcan tilts his head slightly to one side. I can’t tell if he thinks I’m mad to be offering Bernard money. Bernard himself tugs self-consciously at his shirt collar.

‘I . . . er, that is Lucy and I . . .’ He tails off.

Lorcan gets up and slaps Bernard on the back. ‘It’s late. Why don’t you stay here tonight?’

Bernard shakes his head. ‘No, I’ll get back to my hotel . . . I’ll come over again in the morning.’

Lorcan follows him down to the front door to see him out. I switch on my phone. It’s crammed full of voice messages and texts. Most are from Art but there are also several from Hen and
even one each from Sue and my mum, whose message begins:
What on earth are you
—

I don’t open the rest of her text – or any of the others. I can only imagine that Art and Hen must have contacted Sue and Mum – and I have neither the energy nor the desire to
deal with their concern right now. I switch off the mobile, then lean back on the sofa. I close my eyes. The image from the CCTV footage of Art holding the baby . . . our baby . . . drifts in front
of my mind’s eye.

Exhaustion creeps like a thief through my bones.

In my dream I’m running. Images jumble inside my mind, one after the other, fast. Beth is ahead of me, unseeing. She’s eight, with her dark hair in long plaits that fly out behind
her as she runs. Then my dad scoops her up and she’s much younger, only two or three and he holds her up, high in the air, and she squeals with delight. My dad lowers her and swings her
round. Mum is standing on the sidelines, calling out for him to put her down. I’m running towards them but I get no closer. Then all three of them turn to face me. Dad’s dark eyes are
angry. Have I made him angry? Mum is shouting, ‘Grow up, you’re pathetic.’ Beth starts crying. She’s eight again, her mouth trembling with grief. I have to reach her, have
to hold her. But the closer I get, the further away she is. She waves at me, helpless. Tears leak down her face. I’m reaching out for her, crying her name. Then she is gone and I’m
alone in our living room with Dad. He’s looking at the picture I have of him as a boy. ‘Where did you get this, Geniver?’ he demands, his dark eyes still angry. ‘Why
isn’t Beth here? What have you done with her?’

I wake to sunshine streaming in through a gap in the living-room curtains. There’s a crick in my neck but I’m warm and lying on the sofa where I must have fallen
asleep. Someone – Lorcan presumably – has removed my shoes, lain me down and covered me with a blanket. His jacket hangs on the side of the sofa. I catch its scent. It smells of him
– of wood shavings and lemongrass.

The house is silent for a moment, then I hear water running in the shower. I sit up, massaging my neck as the water is switched off.

Lorcan appears, hair dripping, a towel round his waist. My eyes are drawn to his broad chest matted with damp hair, to the curve of the muscles on his arms. Then I realize I’m staring and
abruptly look away.

‘Bernard’s on his way,’ Lorcan says. ‘Cup of tea?’

I nod and Lorcan disappears, into the kitchen. I pad down to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and rubbing some toothpaste over my teeth with my finger.

When I come back to the kitchen a steaming mug of tea and a plate of toast are waiting for me. I eat hungrily. Lorcan – now dressed in jeans and a plain black jumper – watches me.
I’m suddenly aware of my unbrushed hair and creased sweater and squirm self-consciously in my seat.

‘I’d like to go home and fetch some clothes,’ I say. ‘And if I’m going to transfer money to Bernard without Art as co-signatory, I’ll need proper ID . .
.’

Lorcan raises his eyebrows. ‘How much are you planning on giving him?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know, but more than I can get unless I use this particular account.’

‘You don’t have to pay him anything,’ Lorcan insists. ‘He’ll help you without it. He just wants justice for his wife.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘But his wife died because she told me about Beth. I have to do
something
.’

A few minutes later Bernard appears and a few minutes after that the three of us pile into Lorcan’s car and he drives us to Crouch End. As we near my house I check the time. It’s
8.30, half an hour before Lilia arrives and well past the time Art usually leaves for work, but I call his iPhone just to make sure. I’m psyched up for Art to answer, steeling myself against
the sound of his voice. But the call goes straight to voicemail, so I ring the office number. Siena puts me straight through.

‘Gen?’ Art’s voice is strained to breaking point. ‘Gen, thank God, where are you?’

I switch off the phone. ‘He’s definitely in the office.’ Lorcan parks outside the house and I open the car door. ‘Wait here, I won’t be long.’

I let myself in at the front door and head straight for our bedroom. There are signs of Art’s presence everywhere: clothes on the floor, a half-drunk cup of coffee by the bed. A towel lies
strewn across the duvet. I pick it up and experience the familiar irritation that it is damp. As I place it back in the bathroom, I’m struck by how natural these intimacies of our marriage
still feel. In spite of what I’ve learned about Beth and how increasingly close I feel to Lorcan, this room and the relationship it represents is still the centre of my life.

I fetch a hold-all and start hauling clothes out of drawers. I fill a small bag with toiletries from the bathroom, where Art’s razor lies on its side by the sink, then go downstairs to
fetch my passport from the cupboard in the living room. Using it as ID will be the easiest and quickest way for me to get my hands on the money I want to give Bernard O’Donnell.

As I come into the hall again, the sound of a creaking floorboard fills the silence. I freeze. The sound is coming from Art’s office on the second floor. Someone is up there. I stand,
stock still, holding my breath. Another creak. I’ve only just spoken to Art, I know it isn’t him. So who else could possibly be here? They must have heard me crashing about in the
bedroom just below them. Why didn’t they make themselves known?

Perhaps it’s Lilia. She could be early – and she often cleans with her iPod playing. Maybe she didn’t hear me before. I step onto the stairs and peer up towards the first-floor
landing. I can’t see any part of the second floor from here.

Another creak.

A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. And then I hear the soft brushing sound of footsteps on the carpeted second-floor stairs – the footsteps of someone padding down to the
first floor, trying not to make any noise.

I stand for a second, gripping my bag tightly. Silence.

Instinct tells me it’s not Lilia. Then who? If it’s the guy who mugged me before, then why hasn’t he already come to find me?

There’s no further sound. My whole body is tensed, waiting. Perhaps I imagined the noises I heard. Like Art once said, those office floorboards have a mind of their own.

‘Hello?’ I call out. My voice sounds croaky to my ears. ‘Is someone there?’

‘Geniver?’ A familiar voice drifts down the stairs.

And then the last person I expected to see comes into view.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs, still clutching my little bag, looking up at Art’s sister.

‘
Morgan?
’ My mouth drops open. ‘What are you doing here?’

Morgan stares down at me. She is dressed to perfection, as usual, in a pale grey skirt, tailored blouse and her trademark kitten heels. Her lipstick is a soft pink, to match her nails and the
coral chain that hangs around her neck. But there’s nothing soft in her expression.

‘What the hell is up with you, Geniver?’ she demands. ‘My brother is going out of his mind.’

Anger wells up inside me. How dare Morgan leap right in like that and judge me?

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I snap.

Morgan picks her way down the stairs and brushes past me. I turn to follow her. The hallway, as always, is cluttered with coats and bags, with a teetering pile of magazines in the corner. We
face each other at the foot of the stairs.

‘This has to stop,’ Morgan says, giving her foot a little stamp. There’s a fleck of spittle resting on the lipstick in the corner of her mouth. I get a perverse sense of
pleasure from seeing this chink in her armour. ‘I spoke to Art last night. He told me what you accused him of and he’s
devastated
. I dropped everything and rushed over
straightaway.’

She knows about the private things I’ve said to Art
and
she’s been here overnight.
In my house
. I let my bag fall to the ground.

‘This isn’t any of your business,’ I say. ‘You don’t know the whole story.’

Morgan’s thin eyebrows arch dramatically. ‘About your baby? Of course I know the whole story.
Everyone
knows the whole story. You and Art lost your daughter. We were all so
sad for you both. Art pulled himself together and got on with his life. Brilliantly. You let the whole thing drag you down to the point where you’ve become a millstone around Art’s
neck.’

‘Shut up.’ My hands clench with fury.

‘And now this . . . this hysterical nonsense—’

‘How dare you talk to me like this? You’ve got no idea.’ But even as I speak, I’m flooding with shame. Morgan’s right, though I don’t want to face it. I have
let what happened drag me down . . . let my life stagnate, while Art’s has exploded with colour and opportunity.

I have to get away. I pick up my bag and try to walk past Morgan, but she grabs my arm.

‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I know I’m being hard-assed here, I understand it’s hard to move on. I just can’t bear to see what you’re doing to Art.’

‘What about what Art’s done to me?’ I wrench my arm away.

‘Is it that you think he’s having an affair?’

I stare at her. Why would she think that? My mind flashes back to the hotel room Art was in on Monday afternoon. What does she know?

‘No,’ I say, hoping I sound more sure than I feel.

‘Good, because he would
never
be unfaithful to you.’

‘For God’s sake, Morgan. You don’t know what Art’s capable of.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Morgan snarls. ‘I’m his sister. I know him better than you think, Geniver. Maybe even better than you. Don’t you see? He loves you. He’s
sacrificed
everything
for you.’

‘What?’ I glare at her. ‘Sacrificed what?’

‘Children for one thing.’ Morgan’s mouth trembles slightly. ‘You won’t do IVF. You’re making him suffer because you don’t have the guts to move
on.’

Again, shame floods me. My heart is pounding. I
hate
her. I absolutely
hate
her.

Morgan glances at my bag. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Get out of my house.’ My voice rises.