Cover Your Eyes (2 page)

Everyone looks like a zombie on Skype. My dad, when I got through to him, looked much the same as he always did, which wasn't brilliant, but he peered at me, too close to the computer he was using, making him look monstrous and out of proportion.

‘Megan? You okay, darling? Your poor mother … I don't know …'

‘Not really, Dad.' A sob caught in my throat. I started again. ‘It's so awful. It was so sudden. And I hadn't spoken to her for a couple of days. I never said … well, I never said any of the things you're supposed to say but I didn't expect—'

‘Darling, she knew you loved her. She did … and she loved you better than anything. You know that too.'

I nodded. I had been trying not to cry in front of him but this was too much for me. I burst into tears again.

‘Oh, Megan darling, don't cry. Do you want me to come over? I could fly over …'

‘No, no, Dad. Honestly. There's no need. I'm okay. I'll be fine.'

We talked for a few more minutes but we kept coming back to Mum and the death and her funeral and in the end, there was nothing more to be said. I considered Skyping Jay and then thought better of it. I was exhausted, and tomorrow there would be so much to do. I went downstairs to join Anita.

When I came back to
lipstick
after the funeral, Simon was very kind to me. About three weeks later, at the end of a long day when Felix and I had been working on a particularly complicated article, he put his head around the door.

‘Haven't you two got homes to go to?' he said. ‘Come on, Felix, you must let Megan go home at least. It's almost nine.'

‘Time flies when you're having fun, didn't you know?' Felix replied but added, ‘Yes, you go on now, Megan. It is a bit late and I want you to be fresh tomorrow.'

‘I'll give you a lift home, Megan,' Simon said. That was the beginning. When we got to my flat he asked, ‘You going to be okay, Megan? Got any food in?'

‘Oh, yes, I've always got something,' I said. I fumbled about in my bag for the key. ‘I'll make some pasta. Like some? ‘

We didn't get to the pasta. Before I could turn the light on, he took hold of me gently by the shoulders and turned me towards him. Without saying a word, he kissed me and my legs almost gave way. I clung to him in the dark, and felt something inside me falling. The door to the bedroom was open. He took my hand and led me there. We held one another and I was trembling. We didn't say a single word while he undressed me, and as he made love to me for the first time I thought ridiculously that this must be what dying was like. I could hear us crying out together and he was kissing me, and the warm glow from my bedside lamp fell on us both. I had no idea of how much time had gone by. I think we must have fallen asleep. It was after midnight when we woke up.

Almost as soon as he'd left, the guilt arrived, so strongly that I could almost see it: a kind of thickening of the air, filling my nostrils, misting my eyes. I didn't know how to deal with it. I felt bad, imagining him going home, putting myself in the place of the immaculate Gail, whose photo I knew so well because it was there on his desk at the office. I was desperate to tell Jay what had happened but I stopped myself that night. Later on, after one particular evening when the guilt was weighing me down worse than ever, I emailed her and told her everything. She answered in a way that was typical of her.

She did, too. We spent hours on Skype, and she made me feel better. I thought I detected some disapproval but she denied it. Said it was just that a married man wasn't what she'd hope for me in an ideal world, but she could see how far gone I was. I knew she'd be on my side whatever happened, and she has been.

Simon and I quickly fell into a routine. On days when I knew he was coming round, I'd leave the office a bit early, then he'd get to mine about six. He'd go at eight or thereabouts and my whole life shrank into those two hours we had together. We made love, over and over again, and the more we did, the more we couldn't stop. The more I loved him. The more I wanted him to leave his wife and marry me. Live with me for ever.

The time we've been together, I've been happier than at any other time in my life. I feel bad admitting this. I should have gone on feeling guilty. But the truth was: I'd got good at managing the guilt. Other things mattered more to me. My own feelings. What Simon told me. I knew that what I was doing was wrong. There was nothing I wanted more than to be with Simon, so I perfected a sort of conjuring trick. I made his wife disappear: from my thoughts, from my dreams, from every part of my life and naturally, as his wife vanished, so did my guilt. I loved being in the office and knowing that only he and I knew our secret. I loved the hours and hours of sitting in meetings thinking about the last time we'd been together, and the time before that and dreaming about the next time and the time after that and what he'd said and what he'd do when we were alone later on until my face burned with the heat generated by what I was remembering and every single nerve end was twitching with desire.

While the cab was stuck at a traffic light that didn't seem to want to change, I texted Jay:
On my way to dinner with S. Excited. Xx
. We'd talked about what might happen tonight for ages. She knew what I was hoping for. The reply came back almost at once:
Don't get your hopes up. Might just be a good meal. Xx
. I looked out of the window.

My first article for
lipstick
was appearing in the next issue and I wondered whether celebrating that might be a good enough reason for dinner at Farrington's. The Eva Conway piece came out of an editorial meeting earlier in the year. I'd only vaguely heard of her, but Felix was dead set on our having what he called ‘a proper piece' about her in the magazine.

‘You can't ignore her, Simon,' he said. ‘She's the designer's designer. Just scratch any one of the recent flavours of the month and you'll see her influence. All of them: McQueen while he was alive, Westwood, McCartney, Prada and Armani even … they all bow the knee to Eva Conway.'

‘Well, I don't,' Simon was dismissive. 'Do we really want to go with this? She hasn't been around since … I've forgotten since when, but ages, in any case.'

Felix raised an eyebrow. ‘American
Vogue
had a kind of
Where are they now
piece a while ago and they rather went to town on Eva Conway. She did this astonishing collection in the early seventies. We're coming up to the fortieth anniversary. After that, she left the designer world behind her and disappeared.'

‘Well, perhaps she ought to stay disappeared?' Simon laughed. Felix tried one more tactic.

‘You ought to give it serious thought, Simon. We'd be ahead of everyone else.
Vogue
and
Harper's
and all the rest … they'll probably not even realize the anniversary is happening. We'll be ahead of the curve.' He wrinkled his nose a little, as if the phrase was one he wasn't quite used to saying out loud.

‘Okay, okay. I give in. I can see I'll never hear the end of it from you, Felix, if I don't. Where does she live?'

Felix, who was now allowing himself a smile at the idea of the article, said, ‘She doesn't see anyone from her old life, apparently. Lives out in the country somewhere not too far from London. I'll find out the address. I know someone who knew her long ago. It'd be best, I think, for us to send someone to interview her.'

I was about to say that I'd find her, when Simon looked straight at me. ‘Julianne'll write it up, of course, but Megan could help her? Do the research? Possibly go along to the interviews too? Seeing as how Julianne's baby's nearly due?'

How did Simon guess that I wanted to do it? I looked at Felix. He nodded.

‘Good idea, Simon. Nice one for Megan to get involved in.'

My luck got better. Julianne had to leave work sooner than she'd wanted to, because of complications with the pregnancy, and they let me cover for her, officially, while she was on maternity leave. I even got a raise. I was determined to do the best possible job so that Simon and Felix would see that they could trust me. Then maybe he'd promote me to junior features editor and I would not be just an editorial assistant after she came back.

That was something like what happened. Julianne left and Simon said I could take her place as maternity cover. I got to write the piece about Eva Conway. I was thrilled with myself. Thrilled to be allowed to interview her on my own, enchanted by the house she lived in, and by her. Far from being an ancient crone, she turned out to be an elegant woman who seemed much younger than her seventy-eight years. Her ash-blonde hair was up in a French pleat and she was wearing clothes that clearly cost loads and were more stylish than anything I'd ever seen on someone who wasn't actually modelling them for a photo shoot. I was grateful to Simon that he'd trusted me to do the interview; ecstatic that he liked what I wrote; excited to think that I'd see my words in print when the magazine appeared at the end of the week. Maybe Simon had an advance copy. The nearer I got to the restaurant, the more convinced I was that this was going to be a double celebration: his divorce and my first publication.

Simon was waiting on the pavement. He paid the driver and then kissed me briefly. He wasn't smiling.

‘Hi, Megan,' he said, and we went into Farrington's without another word. Something was wrong. The place was almost empty, which maybe wasn't surprising early on a Tuesday evening. As we sat down opposite one another, at a table near the back of the room, he looked away suddenly as if he wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Then he recovered himself a bit and smiled at me, but I knew in an instant that something was different. He wasn't like he usually was. From the moment I'd stepped out of the taxi, I'd been aware of a lack of warmth about him. If you've done nothing for the past six months but interpret looks and actions and words, you know instantly when something isn't as it should be.

He was stiff and polite. I could have been someone he'd only just met. I told myself: he's got to be formal. He can't be all over you in public. What if someone he knows is at this restaurant? Lots of media people go to places like Farrington's and everyone knows the editor of
lipstick
, who is famous for being just as good-looking as most of the male models spread across its pages.

It struck me that this restaurant wasn't a place to have a romantic meal together – it was a place where the person you were with couldn't make a scene. No one would dare to shout or weep around people who might recognize you; among the crystal glasses and the starched white napkins in a room where the walls were covered in silky, dark red wallpaper. A chill came over me. He wasn't going to tell me about his divorce from Gail. I think part of me had known that from the moment I sat down.

The food came but I had no appetite. I left most of it on my plate. My stomach was in a knot. Thinking back, I can't remember what we spoke about. Nothing important. It was like having a meal with an acquaintance. I was longing to put out a hand and touch his, but I didn't. He hardly smiled when he spoke to me and by the time the pudding arrived, I felt as if every nerve in my body had been stretched as thin as a thread.

The words, when he spoke them, fell like blows, even though I'd been half-expecting them.

‘Megan, love, I don't know how to say this. I'm not good at this sort of stuff, but, you know … I have to say it. I have to. I don't want to, but it's no good. We've got to stop seeing each other. I should have stopped it long ago, but it was so hard. Now, we've got to put an end to … well. We've got to draw a line, that's all. I hate it, but there it is,' He paused. ‘Aren't you going to say anything?'

I took a sip of wine.
Love
. How did he dare to call me
love
? And he hates it … how much can he really he hate it if he's doing it, I thought. I must have stared at him. He went on: ‘Don't look at me like that, Megan, okay? I can't bear it. It's not … I mean I don't want to, you must know that, but I've got to. Stuff has changed, I'll be honest with you. It's not the same any longer.'

‘I'm exactly the same. What's happened to you?'

‘I'm … we're … that is, we're expecting a baby.'

The inside of my head seemed to swell and all of a sudden, my eyes were full of tears and I picked up the heavy damask napkin and dabbed at them and left mascara on the white cloth. A baby.

‘When's it due?' I said. I couldn't say what I wanted to say. I wanted to shout:
How dare you lie to me about your marriage being over?

‘Early spring,' he said. I took a long sip from the wineglass and considered throwing the rest in his face. Instead I put the glass down and counted backwards. Gail was probably four months pregnant. Simon and I had been sleeping together for six months, almost to the day. Bastard. Bastard to me and to her as well. Spring could be any time from February. I felt quite sick. How had I swallowed his lies? He'd let me think that sex with his wife was a thing of the past. He didn't do or say anything that might have made me think differently. That was one of the reasons I really did believe he might choose me. I knew – everyone
does
know – that men always stayed with their wives. That they always go back to their homes in the end. Simon and I, I was convinced, would be unlike the rest. Not having sex with his wife was part of that. Had he actually
told
me they weren't? It was hard to go back over the months and all the times we'd been together, but I tried. I only remembered words:
You're the one. You're the only one. It's never been like this with anyone else, ever, my darling. Not ever. Just killing time when we're apart.
Lies like that. It came over me slowly that no, he'd never actually said:
I'm not sleeping with my wife.
I believed what I wanted to believe. I was stupid. Deluded.