Close My Eyes (7 page)

It’s impossible to believe that anything Lucy O’Donnell said is true. And yet my gut tells me she wasn’t lying. I sink lower into the bath, letting the water lap over my
stomach, over the place where Beth once danced inside me.

I fall asleep at last in the warm water. In my dream I’m back in the house where I grew up. I’m hiding under the bed, a child, holding my dad’s guitar like a security blanket,
and then a voice calls me out and it’s the young doctor from the first clinic where Art and I were tested following nine months of trying to get pregnant again after Beth. I’m not
anxious about it – not really. After all, I got pregnant easily enough the first time. The doctor turns to me. She smiles. ‘We can find nothing wrong,’ she says. ‘You are
both still young. It just takes time.’ She shakes my arm. ‘Listen to me. It is just a matter of time. The baby should come. Just give it time.’ She shakes my arm. ‘Geniver.
Give it time. Time. Gen . . .’

‘Gen.’

I wake, disoriented. Art is gently shaking my arm. It is dusk outside and I am lying on the bed covered in just a towel . . . Cold.

‘Are you all right?’ Art’s eyes are tender in the twilight. He sits on the bed beside me.

I tug at the towel, drawing it up over my shoulders. I don’t even remember getting out of the bath and onto the bed. I stare into Art’s face and realize how crazy I was to let some
stranger make me doubt him for a second.

‘You must be exhausted,’ I mumble. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Almost seven.’ He grimaces. ‘I didn’t have a minute all day and the flight home was packed.’ He pauses, leaning lower and letting his lips graze my forehead.
‘It’s you I’m worried about, though,’ he whispers. ‘How are you doing?’

I stroke his face, running my finger over the lines that crease the skin around his eyes. They weren’t there a year ago. Art is getting older. And so am I. There’s nothing stronger
than the bond created by time and suffering.

‘I’m sorry about this morning, Art, that woman really got to me.’

‘I know.’ Art tucks the towel around me as I shiver. ‘I put in a call to Vaizey. He wouldn’t speak to me, but I left a message.’ He pauses.
‘Bastard.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Don’t worry, I didn’t actually threaten him, just made it clear that if he was trying to stir anything up between us, he might as well stop now. It wasn’t going to
work.’

‘No.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘So how was your meeting?’

‘Good.’ Art grins. ‘Hey, d’you want to hear something amazing?’

I sit up. ‘What?’

‘
Two
things actually.’ He laughs. ‘Count ’em. One, today’s pitch went well.
Really
well. The client more or less said the job was ours.’

‘Fantastic.’ I smile, trying to look like I know which client he’s talking about. This one has totally passed me by. All I know is that the company is based in Brussels. To be
honest, since Art appeared in
The Trials
there have been too many pitches to keep track of.

‘The second amazing thing that happened today is that the woman I was with, Sandrine – she’s on a policy committee at Number Ten,’ Art pauses for breath. ‘
Ten
Downing Street
, Gen. She’d already said she wanted to talk to me about an “initiative”, remember? Well, apparently the PM saw me on
The Trials
and he wants me on the
same committee that she’s on. It’s not window dressing either. I got into the weeds with Sandrine about it. She says the PM is really impressed with me, wants
me
in the
“loop”, this particular “loop” being a top-level, big-bloody-deal of a weekly session that the Prime Minister is
always
at. Me, him, her and three other people,
max. Just think, Gen. Me and the bloody PM in a meeting together. Starting tomorrow.’ He shucks his jacket off with a flourish.

‘That’s brilliant,’ I say.

‘Bloody right.’ Art laughs. He sits back and loosens his tie. ‘And the best bit is the influence on policy I’ll have. D’you get it, Gen? They’re going to
listen to me, because I’ve grown the company so much – against all the odds – and I’ve walked the line while I’ve done it. Everything ethical, sustainable . . . They
see me up here on this high moral ground and they want to jump up and join me.’ He beams at me. ‘This is so much bigger than the company, than just Loxley Benson; it feels like
everything’s opening up: me getting to make a difference on policy, you trying to get pregnant again . . . Hey, maybe we should celebrate, buy that recycled dance sculpture from Being Green
that you liked?’

I stare at him. ‘That cost nearly fifty grand.’

An image of the £50,000 payment to MDO on the bank statement flashes up inside my head. My pulse races, my mind suddenly alert and working at a million miles an hour. I
have
to
ask Art. It will drive me insane otherwise.

Art laughs. ‘Okay then, how about an environmentally friendly barbecue?’

‘Actually . . .’ I try to sound casual. ‘I was looking for something earlier and I came across an odd payment. The folder was marked “personal”, but the file was an
account for L. B. Plus.’

Art shrugs. ‘That’s probably just one of Dan’s trading names for Loxley Benson, you know he uses loads of them . . .’ He pauses. ‘What was the payment
for?’

‘I don’t know, but it was fifty grand,’ I pause, watching his face carefully. ‘The payee’s name was MDO.’

‘Right.’ Art’s expression is impassive. ‘When was this?’

‘Nearly eight years ago. Just after . . . you know . . .’

The atmosphere immediately grows tense. Art sucks in his breath. ‘Has this got something to do with that stupid bitch who came here this morning?’

‘No, of course not.’ I touch his arm, to emphasize that there’s no accusation in my question. ‘Honest, Art, it’s just made me think about that time and I realized I
didn’t know where any of the old paperwork is stored and then I came across this weird account . . .’ I tail off, hoping Art can’t see through me, to the mistrustful heart of my
suspicions.

Art takes a step away from me. His face is guarded. ‘I can’t remember what that payment was for,’ he says. ‘But it probably got filed in a personal folder by accident.
I’ll look into it.’

My heart sinks at the distance that’s just opened up between us. ‘I’m sorry, Art, that woman really upset me. It’s hard when a total stranger looks you in the eyes
and—’

‘And makes an outrageous accusation against your own husband that you can’t be one hundred percent sure isn’t true?’ Art’s voice is carefully light, but I can hear
the tension underneath.

‘No.’ I smile. ‘I know it’s not true. It’s just . . .’ My voice shrinks to a whisper. ‘It’s just . . . our baby . . . I never saw her, Art.
Suppose . . .’

He stares at me. ‘Yes, but
God
, Gen.’ His voice is gentler than before. He squats down beside me and reaches across the bed for my hand. ‘You
know
why you
didn’t, but
I
saw her.’

I look away. I didn’t see Beth because she was so deformed that Dr Rodriguez advised me not to. Her defective chromosome, Trisomy 18, had caused damage to the heart and kidneys, with
massive disfiguration to the head.

Art said at the time he wished he hadn’t seen her. I didn’t understand why, until I demanded to see the pictures in Dr Rodriguez’s file during our visit to hear the results of
his post-mortem tests. The photos were clipped to a report on the birth. I wish I hadn’t seen them – but I did. I saw everything, including the way her face was twisted like melted
wax.

So I didn’t see Beth herself, but I did see the proof that she was dead.

And Art, poor Art, he saw her for real.

‘What did she look like, Art?’ I say, keeping my gaze fixed on his face. ‘Our baby . . . you saw her . . . what . . . how did she look?’

I hold my breath. We’ve never talked about Beth’s specific appearance. I mean, Dr Rodriguez told me about her disfigurement and I saw that picture of her afterwards. But Art’s
always refused to tell me exactly how our baby looked – the essence of her. I watch his face harden, and even before he opens his mouth I know he’s got no intention of talking about it
now, either.

‘I’m not going there, Gen.’ Art stands up, paces to the door then stops, his fingers clenched tightly round the handle. ‘Maybe you should call Hen again. Or Sue. Or your
mum. See what they say about all of this.’

I shake my head. I already know what Hen thinks. Hen never hides her feelings. My friend, Sue, on the other hand, will be soothing and sympathetic, then try and make me laugh. But she
won’t really understand, either. Mum will dismiss my fears out of hand, even before I tell her what they’re about. She makes no attempt to hide her belief that I’ve inherited my
dad’s neurotic, compulsive tendencies, ‘though at least you don’t appear to be looking for the answers to life at the bottom of a bottle.’ Plus she adores Art.

Not that it matters. I know it’s crazy for me to doubt the past like this.

‘Mum’s in Australia.’ My voice breaks as I speak.

‘So? They have phones there, don’t they?’ Art’s tone is suddenly harsh, his breathing jagged. He strides back to the bed. His jaw is clenched. ‘Jesus Christ, I hope
John Vaizey, or whoever sent that woman to lie to you, rots in hell for giving you false hope.’ He slams his hand, flat, against the wall above the bed.

I jump, my breath catching in my throat. Art
never
loses his cool. He’s always absolutely in control. I stare at him, my whole body tensed. I’ve never seen him so angry. And
then, as I watch – half-terrified, half-astonished – Art sinks down beside me on the bed.

‘I’m sorry, Gen.’ He puts his head in his hands and, when he looks up, there are tears in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry but you have to let this go now because . . .
because . . . the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was walk into that room and face you after our baby had died. And I’m not – do you hear me? – I’m not letting that
moment destroy our future like it destroyed the past.’

He stops, his chest heaving. For a moment I feel guilty. I have to keep remembering that Art lost Beth too.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

A beat passes.

Then Art nods, ‘Not tea though, champagne,’ he insists. I can hear him making himself sound cheerful again. ‘We’ve got things to celebrate.’

Champagne is the last thing I want, but Art is back in ebullient mode and I know from experience it’s easier not to resist. ‘Okay, you get the bottle and some glasses,’ I say,
smiling back. ‘I’ll get dressed.’

Art raises his eyebrows, a flicker of lust in his expression. ‘No need for that,’ he says, tracing his finger across my bare shoulder.

‘Maybe later . . .’ I smile and pull away from him. ‘Go on downstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.’

Art leaves. I hurry into jeans and a sweatshirt and follow him down to the kitchen. I feel disoriented from sleeping the whole afternoon away. Art has already set two champagne flutes on the
table. As I stand there he pops the bottle he’s fetched and pours two glasses. He hands one to me, then raises his own.

‘To the future,’ he says. ‘
Our
future.’

I smile again and take a tiny sip of the chilled fizz. I sit down and Art comes up behind me, sets his glass down, and starts massaging my shoulders. ‘Listen, Gen,’ he says. ‘I
know it’s hard, but you have to put all the rubbish that woman said out of your mind. Let’s make today the day we start again.’

The fading light coming through the kitchen window catches the smudges around the rims of the two champagne flutes on the table.

Art picks up his glass again.

‘Do you think we should report her to the police?’ I ask.

‘What for?’ Art dismisses my suggestion with a flick of his hand. ‘There’s no proof. We don’t even know her real name, or where she lives.’

I think of the scrap of paper with Lucy’s mobile number scrunched up in my coat pocket. ‘Right,’ I say.

Art strokes my hair. ‘I think what we should do is forget she ever existed. We’ll do ICSI and you
will
get pregnant and we
will
have a baby.’ He holds his
glass out towards me and grins. ‘To hope.’

I hesitate. I know Art’s is the logical way forward but I
want
to believe the impossible. I
want
to believe that Beth is out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her.
I touch my glass against his.

‘To hope,’ I say.

I wake with a start from a bad dream. Anxiety clutches at my chest. Something’s gone . . . something’s missing . . . Beth . . . always Beth . . .

As the sensation fades, I grope for the clock beside my bed: 4.15 a.m.
Crap
. Art is snoring gently beside me. He never wakes early. He never has trouble sleeping. Most annoyingly, he
never takes longer than a few minutes to fall asleep.

I get out of bed and pad downstairs to the kitchen. I know from experience that once I’m awake at this time, I might as well get up. I switch on the kettle and fetch a mug, a tea bag and
some milk.

I’ve dreamed about Beth many times in the past few years and though I can never remember the details, I know that she grows older each time, so that she’s always the age she would
have been if she’d lived.

Maybe the age she
is
. . . The thought strikes me so hard I actually drop the mug I’m holding. It bounces onto the countertop with a thud that echoes loudly in the early morning
air. Could I be dreaming of a
real
person?

Is such a thing even possible?

I sit down at the table, listening as the rush and hiss of the kettle coming to the boil fills the room. I rarely remember anything specific from the dreams, just a vague and fading sense of her
face: once a rosy-cheeked baby, then a chubby, smiling toddler and now, almost eight years old, an olive-skinned little girl with soft brown curls, like I had when I was younger, with Art’s
huge brown eyes.

In my dreams she’s alive and she’s perfect.

I drink my tea, go back to bed and refuse to let myself think about either Beth or Lucy O’Donnell. After a while I fall asleep again. When I wake up it’s almost nine-thirty. I can
hear Lilia singing along to her iPod as she vacuums downstairs. I turn over. There’s no sign of Art. Which isn’t surprising. He’s always out the door by seven. There is a note on
his pillow, however. I reach over, groggily, and pull it closer.