Close My Eyes (5 page)

I stare into Lucy’s eyes. For a second I falter . . . Every instinct tells me she’s telling the truth. And yet she
can’t
be.

‘Tell me the final thing,’ I snarl. ‘Then we’ll see about a reward.’

Lucy swallows. ‘It’s just this.’ She hesitates again. A fly crawls across the table between us.

‘Yes?’ I look up.

‘It’s your husband,’ Lucy says, her voice barely audible. ‘According to Mary, he knew. He knew what Dr Rodriguez was doing.’

It’s the last straw. Shock sucks all the air out of me. I’m on my feet before I’ve even registered standing up.

‘Lies,’ I hiss. ‘Liar.’

Moments later I’m outside, running down the road, desperate to get away.

Desperate to get home.

This was the day Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth happened. I was in the playground but I knew where there was a rip in the fence and when the teacher wasn’t looking I
crawled under because there was a big conker on the other side but it was really belonging to us because it had fallen from the tree on our side. I didn’t think anyone would notice but they
did before I even got to the conker.

There were two of them.

‘Hey, Pig Face,’ said the tall one with ginger hair. ‘Why are you in our playground?’

‘Yeah, why?’ The one with the chipped front tooth was short and skinny with glasses on, but still bigger than me.

I pushed my hair back, trying not to look like I was scared. But I was. And they could see it. Ginger Tall smiled – a mean, thin smile, all glinting from metal braces.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘Yeah,’ Broken Tooth added.

The rain was like someone throwing pencils on my face. I turned to leave, but Ginger Tall ran in front of me. ‘Where are you going, Pig Face?’

I said nothing. Tried to pass.

Ginger Tall grabbed my arm with nasty fingers. They dug in so hard they hurt. ‘You deaf now, too?’

I opened my mouth, but there was a tight feeling in my throat, stopping my words. I was so scared that I could feel a little bit of wee coming out.

Help, let me go.
That was what I wanted to shout, but my voice wasn’t working.

And then Ginger Tall made his hand into a fist.

Art’s phone is still going to voicemail, so I speak to Hen again, ranting down the phone at her as I pick apart everything Lucy O’Donnell said. To her credit, Hen
refrains from pointing out she told me not to go and meet the woman.

I come away from the call exhausted and wound up. It’s not quite midday but I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down in front of my computer. I need to sort out a lesson plan for later
in the week and check my emails. Hopefully that will take my mind off what’s just happened.

There’re a couple of messages from the Art & Media Institute, just admin stuff. One from my agent, inviting me to a drinks party in May. I squirm as I read it – all friendly and
chatty but with a rather barbed ‘Do hope you will have some news for us soon’ at the end. She’s referring to my writing, of course. I was starting to plan a fourth book when Beth
died. I haven’t written a word since. I’ve checked my contract and there’s nothing to say I have to send her my next idea by a certain date. Still, after producing nothing and
working on nothing for eight years, I can’t help but wonder when she’s finally going to get fed up and chuck me back on the slush pile where she found me.

The last email I open is from Morgan, Art’s sister. I’ve left this one to the end, because virtually all communication with Morgan leaves me feeling inadequate. It’s not really
her fault – she’s just so groomed and ultra-organized. She and Art didn’t know each other for most of their childhoods, which were spent at opposite ends of the social spectrum.
Morgan was born into privilege and privately educated splendour, growing up in Edinburgh. Art, meanwhile, was the illegitimate son of Morgan’s father and a pretty London waitress, and grew up
in single-parent poverty in Archway.

I force myself to read Morgan’s email. Sure enough, she’s asking what the arrangements are for Art’s fortieth-birthday party which, as Hen reminded me earlier, is
this
Friday
. I take a breath. It’s not really a problem. I’ve already told our friends and was just planning to pop to M&S at some point to stock up on party food. We have a
well-loaded iPod and plenty of booze – Art buys wine and beer in bulk as part of some business deal, and our entire dining room is basically a large drinks cupboard.

My meagre arrangements, however, clearly won’t satisfy Morgan. I read through her email with a growing sense of guilt – and resentment.

Etc., etc. I start to email back but am soon overwhelmed by the impossibility of explaining to Morgan in writing that her idea of party arranging is a far cry from the low-key
efforts that pass muster in our corner of north London.

Feeling irritated, I simply reply that I’ll see her in two days’ time, then crawl onto the sofa, determined to spend the next ten minutes making a shopping list in my head.
Hummus, olives, pitta . . . maybe I could introduce some sort of camp, seventies theme with prawn cocktail canapés or cheese and pineapple on sticks
. . . But my mind keeps going
over what Lucy O’Donnell told me.

Her words swim around my head.

Beth is alive. Your husband knew.

It’s bright and crisp and clear outside. The sort of early spring day I normally love. But today it doesn’t touch me. Today, I can’t think straight. Can’t think at all.
The woman was lying . . . it was a scam . . . that’s the only explanation. Art would never,
could
never, have colluded in such a lie.

And yet doubt crawls through my mind. Could any part of what O’Donnell told me be true?

The phone rings. And though I’ve been expecting the call, the sound makes me jump. I reach for the handset beside the sofa.

‘Gen?’ Art’s voice is full of concern. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Oh, Art.’ I can feel the tears welling up just at the sound of his voice.

‘Hen just called me,’ Art says. ‘She told me about . . . that woman . . .’ He spits out the words. ‘I can’t bloody believe it.’

‘Oh.’ I’m slightly thrown. Hen knows Art well, of course, but I didn’t expect him to hear this intimate piece of information from anyone other than me.

‘So tell me exactly what this woman said to you?’ he says.

I go through the whole thing again. I hesitate when I get to the part about O’Donnell’s conviction that Art himself was involved, then I rush in and tell him that too. He makes a
noise that’s halfway between a growl and a groan.

‘I can’t believe they would do this,’ he says.

‘Who?’ I sit straight up on the sofa. ‘Art, do you know who . . . who that woman is?’

He sighs. ‘Not for sure, but I’m guessing John Vaizey from Associated Software sent her. We totally crushed them on a pitch last week.’

My head spins. ‘Why would one of your business rivals pretend that . . .?’

‘Vaizey threatened me after the pitch, called me a “media tart” and said I’d better not take the account if I wanted to stay in business.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I say.

‘I thought it was just a meaningless threat but . . .’ Art’s breathing is shallow. ‘I never thought he’d do something so cruel . . . or . . . or aimed at
you.’

I think it through. Fourteen years of listening to Art talk about his business dealings have left me with no illusions; the apparently sedate world of corporate investments often produces
unbelievably destructive and underhand tactics. ‘But . . . but how would he know the sister of the theatre nurse at the hospital?’ I say. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It’s a con, Gen,’ Art says bitterly. ‘You don’t even know this woman
was
the nurse’s sister. You said yourself you couldn’t even be sure the
woman in the photo she showed you was
really
the nurse from the hospital.’

This is true. For the first time in hours the horror of O’Donnell’s claims slides into a context I can cope with. Everything she said was designed to hurt me and – through me
– Art.

‘Anyway, who else could it be?’ Art goes on. ‘You don’t have any enemies. You don’t even have a proper job.’

There’s a pause while I register what he’s said. It’s true, of course – I only work at the college eight hours a week – but it’s blunt, even for Art, who
never sugar-coats anything. He obviously realizes this and softens his voice.

‘The point is, everyone loves you. It’s
got
to be a business thing.’

I’m nodding on the other end of the phone, desperately wanting to believe him. And yet Lucy O’Donnell’s anxious face is still in my mind’s eye.

‘It’s just . . . she seemed so sincere, like . . . even if the whole thing was made up, she genuinely thinks it’s true.’

‘That’s stupid.’ Art’s voice has the force of a hurricane. ‘Don’t start imagining things. I was there too, remember? Beth died inside you.’

I flinch.

‘How could anyone think she’s alive?’ Art persists. ‘There was a whole team of people in the operating theatre who said she was dead.’

‘Lucy O’Donnell said Dr Rodriguez got most of them out of the room before the baby was born; that he gave them food poisoning or something so they wouldn’t be there
when—’

‘Can you hear how far-fetched all this sounds?’ Art demands. ‘What about the scan that
showed
she was dead? No movement, no heartbeat. What about the tests on her they
did later?’

‘You can manipulate images and turn off sounds and substitute bodies,’ I say stubbornly.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ Art says. ‘The doctor took her out of you. He
saw
her.’

‘
I
didn’t see her,’ I say, remembering how Beth had been born so disfigured that the doctor had advised against it when I came round after the anaesthetic. The phone
feels hot against my ear.

‘No.’ Art hesitates. ‘But I did.’

A woman’s voice sounds in the background. She has a slight French accent. She’s asking Art to go with her. Art muffles the receiver.

‘Okay, Sandrine, sure.’ He sounds self-conscious. Unlike himself. Then he’s back. ‘Sorry, Gen, I have to go. I was supposed to be in my next meeting ten minutes
ago.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say.

‘Are you sure you’re okay? Why don’t you call Hen to come over, or Sue, or—’

‘I’m
fine
, Art, honest.’

We say goodbye and I curl up on the sofa. The memories that I keep walled up are flooding back. How I got pregnant with Beth so easily – within a couple of months of coming off the Pill.
How happy Art was when I told him: his eyes lit up with a boyish grin. How tired I felt and how it didn’t feel real until I saw Beth sucking her thumb on the scan. Not that I knew she was a
girl then; I asked, but they said the position she was in made it impossible to tell. How I sang to her songs that my dad used to sing to me. How she would kick when I was in the bath and how Art
and I would watch my belly moving, entranced and – we laughingly admitted to each other – ever so slightly freaked out.

The day we travelled to Oxford to stay in our rented house for the last month, I was all hormonal, crying at the change of scene, worried I wouldn’t settle and that we should never have
left the security of London and our local hospital. But the house was so lovely and Dr Rodriguez was so reassuring that I felt right at home within hours of arriving.

My mind skips to the day itself: 11 June. I’d been feeling light-headed and groggy all day and hadn’t felt the baby move for hours. At first, I wasn’t particularly bothered by
this – at 37 weeks her movements had slowed right down. But Art was anxious. Jittery. He was trying not to show how concerned he felt, but he kept suggesting I went to the hospital for a
proper check. I hadn’t had a scan for weeks but Dr Rodriguez said they could fit me in late afternoon. We got there early, so took a stroll around the natural-birth pod, which wasn’t
being used that day The pod was – is – an amazing creation. A womb-shaped environment designed to replicate whatever natural scene you choose: at the flick of a button, the walls show a
film of the sea, or woods or open countryside – or even, at an extra cost, the client’s own footage – with sounds and smells to match. There’s a birthing pool, a soft,
padded floor that can be sloped at various gradients, and pillows and cushions in a range of sizes and textures. I was still, at that point, hopeful I’d be able to give birth there. I
remember Art and I agreeing that the pool with the film of the ocean all around and a starlit sky above would be our first choice – both of us loving the swish and drag of the waves and the
scent of salt in the warm air.

Still feeling lightheaded, and increasingly worried that I hadn’t felt the baby move for hours now, I walked with Art across to the main building for my check-up. Dr Rodriguez asked me to
wait: there was some problem with the ultrasound scanner in his usual room. We waited nearly two hours until another was free. It grew overcast outside. Art was fidgeting, anxious. And then Dr
Rodriguez was with us. The radiographer had gone, so the doctor did the scan himself. I remember him peering at the screen, the concern on his face. And then him turning to us, saying that he was
so terribly sorry. He had to say the words three times before I heard them: our baby had died in the womb.

Art and I were distraught. Then Art insisted the hospital did the C-section to remove Beth as soon as possible. I hadn’t eaten for hours, he argued, there was no reason not to go ahead
straightaway. The doctor insisted I should have a few hours – maybe even a few days to get over the shock of the news. Art refused to listen. I don’t remember having an opinion myself.
I was too numb, swept along by Art’s fury and determination.