Never Close Your Eyes (66 page)

Evie leaned forward. ‘Tell us,' she pleaded.

Russell shook his head. ‘I really can't, one must be discreet.'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake!' Nic said crossly. ‘We know about all your other patients. I don't see why this one should have special treatment.'

Russell took the bottle out of the cooler. ‘May I do the honours?'

Carol nodded. ‘Go on, please.'

He pointed the bottle away from the table and twisted the cork, which came off with a loud and satisfying pop. Tim had risen and was holding two empty glasses, which Russell quickly filled.

‘Give me the others, quick,' he said. ‘Oh all right, if you insist,' he continued, filling the other glasses which people were passing up the table. ‘Well, this gentleman-turned-lady had a bit of an infection. She'd had the full op – you know – but the interesting thing was' – Russell looked up and twinkled – ‘that the wife came into the examination room with him, er, her.'

‘The wife?' Becca spluttered. ‘You mean they're still married?'

Russell nodded.

‘Very good relationship apparently. Several kids. She seemed most concerned about the infection – but not at all worried about where it had come from. Clearly they have an open relationship. They still share a bed, though.'

Carol tutted. ‘It wasn't like this in my day. No one had ever heard of transvestites, transsexuals, whatever you call them.'

‘Rubbish,' Jonathan chipped in. He'd clearly got over the fact that his book hadn't won the competition and had squished into his favourite place next to Nic. He was practically sitting on her lap. They looked very cosy. She was pretending not to notice. ‘Think of Quentin Crisp – and the English journalist and travel writer Jan Morris in the 1960s. You must have heard of her?'

Carol harrumphed. ‘Still, it wasn't common, though. These people seem to be two a penny nowadays.'

Evie laughed. ‘Hardly. Anyway, I think it's nice that he, er, she and the wife are still good friends. Must have been difficult for the wife to come to terms with, though,' she added darkly.

Nic took a sip from her glass. She was on orange juice and lemonade. She seemed to be coping amazingly well without alcohol, Evie thought.

‘What news of the baby?' Nic asked quietly. The others were still discussing Russell's transsexual.

‘Mia? I caught a glimpse of her in the car the other day,' Evie whispered. ‘She's very sweet. Helen and Neil were looking a bit rough, though.' She gave a naughty, gap-toothed grin. ‘Evidently not getting much sleep.'

‘Poor Neil, poor Helen.' Nic smirked. ‘What's Neil like with Bill?'

‘Chilly,' Evie replied. ‘Bill's always charming, though.'

‘I bet he is. And I bet Neil finds it infuriating.'

Evie laughed. ‘I think he does. But you know what?' she said, tipping her head to one side. ‘The lovely thing is that I really don't care what he thinks. So long as he turns up on time for the children and looks after them properly when they're with him, I'm happy. I wouldn't be in his shoes, though.' She shivered.

‘Why not?'

‘The children tell me Helen's awfully bossy. She makes him cook supper the minute he gets in from work. Says she can't look after the baby and make a meal at the same time. And they never go out in the evenings now because she doesn't trust anyone to babysit.'

‘Ha, serves him right!'

It was midnight by the time they left the pub. Carol had clearly thoroughly enjoyed the evening and looked a little flushed from the champagne as well as her success.

‘Congratulations, and be careful!' Evie called as Carol clambered on to her bike and wobbled off down the street.

She waved a hand without looking round. ‘I will!'

Becca turned to Evie and Nic. ‘Who'd have thought it?' she said. ‘Carol winning the prize. She's done so well!'

‘I know,' said Nic, ‘and with a good agent now, she'll no doubt find a publisher soon. It's amazing.'

Evie nodded. ‘How do you feel?' she asked Becca. ‘Are you very disappointed? We all thought you were going to win.'

Becca smiled. ‘You know what? I think there's something rather marvellous about the fact that the judges opted for a really unusual book instead of plumping for something more obvious, don't you?'

The other women nodded in agreement.

‘I can't wait to read
Miaow
properly,' Becca went on. ‘We've only heard short extracts up to now, haven't we?' She looked at Evie. ‘Didn't Carol gave you a copy a while back? Did you read it?'

Evie shook her head. ‘I couldn't bring myself to. It's still under my bed.'

Nic raised her eyebrows. ‘Aren't you curious? I would be.'

‘Kind of,' Evie said seriously. ‘But I'm scared, too. I'm sure I will one day, when I'm feeling strong enough.'

‘I can understand that,' Nic replied. She glanced down at Evie's feet and squeaked: ‘What on earth are those?'

Evie was wearing her black duffel coat on top of a pretty, slightly hippyish brushed-cotton dress with an aubergine and brown pattern that Nic had admired earlier. However, on her feet were a pair of large muddy green wellies. Nic couldn't believe that she hadn't spotted them earlier.

Evie looked embarrassed. ‘I was helping Bill at the allotment this afternoon,' she explained. ‘I was in a rush to get out this evening and I couldn't find my shoes . . .'

‘So you shoved those on?' Nic snorted. ‘An interesting look. You could start a new trend – or not.'

Evie flashed another gap-toothed smile. ‘I never imagined I'd get into this allotment lark but actually it's rather compulsive. You should come and visit us down there sometime. You might catch the bug.'

‘I can't quite see that happening.' Becca grinned. ‘Or at least, not that sort of bug. But I'll come and sample some of your cabbage wine or whatever it is that you allotmenteers go in for.'

‘Cabbage wine?' said Evie. ‘I don't think so. But we're going to have a marvellous crop of—'

‘Oh God, here she goes,' Nic said, raising her eyebrows, which was now possible as the Botox had long since worn off. ‘Give her the merest hint of encouragement and she's off. She'll be going on about her bloody compost heap next.'

Evie clapped her hands. ‘Compost heap? I nearly forgot to tell you, we're building a wormery! We've got four hundred worms arriving on Friday. Bill says worm wee is an excellent fertiliser.'

Nic shook her head. ‘Mad. She's gone absolutely mad.'

‘You can have some if you like,' Evie offered. ‘We should have plenty.'

‘Er, maybe not,' said Nic.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

It was cold and dark and Becca was grateful that the porch light was on when she got home. She had some difficulty squeezing past the cardboard boxes on either side of the hallway. She caught sight of the address scribbled on top of one of the crates as she passed – Goodall, Villa Dolores, Avenida de las Palomas, Málaga – and felt a familiar tingle of excitement. Not long now.

She took off her shoes, hung her coat on the bannisters and tiptoed upstairs. She was surprised to see the light on in the first-floor drawing room; she'd expected Tom either to be asleep or watching TV in bed. She'd tell him about Carol's win and Evie's wormery. It would make him laugh.

He had his back to her facing the bay window that overlooked the green. The curtains were drawn and his hands were clasped behind him. The room felt chilly; the heating must have gone off and the fireplace was cold. He was still in his suit trousers and a white shirt. His curly hair, surprisingly grey now, flicked up at the collar. A stranger would take him for a solid, respectable, middle-aged gentleman – until he turned and gave his cheeky, dimpled smile. He seemed to be deep in thought.

‘Tom!' she said. ‘What are you doing?'

He swivelled round and she could tell immediately that something was the matter. His eyes were dead and his mouth was turned down at the corners. His face, normally ruddy and animated, was a strange, pallid colour.

‘What's wrong?' she cried, hurrying towards him, her arms outstretched. ‘What's happened?'

His hands remained behind his back and his body was rigid. She stopped in her tracks and put her arms down.

‘I'm sorry, Becca,' he said, shaking his head. ‘I can't do it.'

Her heart started beating faster. ‘Can't do what?'

‘You and me. Spain. It's not going to work.'

She stared at him, uncomprehending. His dark-brown eyes were unreadable. Was he joking?

She laughed nervously. ‘What do you mean?'

He closed his eyes. He wouldn't look at her. ‘I thought we could get through it as a family, I thought I could move on. But I can't.'

She clutched her throat. ‘I don't understand. Why have you suddenly changed your mind?'

He paused. ‘It's not a sudden thing. I've been thinking about it for the past year.' His eyes were still closed.

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. ‘Why didn't you say – before we made all these plans?'

He shrugged, opened his eyes and stared at the palms of his hands. ‘I wanted to keep the family together. I wanted us to start a new life. I thought if I believed hard enough that I could forgive and forget then I really would. Mind over matter, I suppose.'

‘But it didn't work?'

He hung his head. ‘No.'

She stood, frozen to the spot. ‘I thought it was too good to be true,' she said quietly.

He swallowed. ‘It's the not knowing, too.' Still he wouldn't look at her. ‘The constantly checking over your shoulder wondering if someone will find out who you are, waiting for that knock on the door . . .'

‘Tom,' she said, ‘I've lived with it for thirty years. It is possible.'

He didn't seem to hear. ‘What if Gary decides to cough after all this time – or he has a row with his wife and she scurries off to the tabloids? I can't handle it, I can't live my life like that. Even if we were abroad I'd still be on edge the whole time. I'd go mad.'

She put her hands over her face. She felt so alone. ‘I knew this would happen. It's why I lied to you. I knew it would destroy us. You shouldn't have come after me. You should have left me in Normandy. It would have been so much easier.'

He walked over to an armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, his elbows on his knees, staring at his feet. Becca chose to remain standing.

‘What'll you do?' he asked simply. ‘The children . . . it's such a mess.' He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

She thought rapidly. They were due to leave in two weeks' time. The house was sold, the new one bought, the children had places at a school in Málaga.

‘Tom?' she pleaded, taking a step towards him.

He flinched and put his hands up like a barrier. ‘Don't.'

She'd tried so hard to ignore the way that he avoided touching her, to convince herself that it would pass. It hurt so much. She should have listened to her instincts. ‘I don't know. I suppose I'll go anyway.'

He shifted slightly in his chair.

‘What about you?' she asked.

He looked up. His eyes and nose were red. ‘Shift on the nationals, I guess.' He laughed grimly. ‘They might even give me my old job back.' He hated that job, he'd been desperate to get away. ‘I won't expect anything from you – financially, I mean.'

She took a deep breath; it seemed such an irrelevance, how they'd work out the money side of things. ‘The children will be devastated,' she whispered.

He hugged his arms around his chest. ‘I'll visit as often as I can. And once I get my own place—'

‘Stop.' She couldn't bear to look that far ahead. Just getting through the next twenty-four hours was going to be hard enough. ‘Think about it, Tom,' she pleaded. ‘We've got two weeks. We can delay. You don't have to make a decision now. You might feel differently . . .'

He shook his head. ‘I've made up my mind. I can't do it. We've reached the end of the line.'

A thought occurred to her. ‘Is there someone else?'

‘No.'

‘But you were so kind,' she went on, ‘after I told you. You've been so gentle, so understanding. Don't you love me any more?' She needed an answer. She had to be sure.

He unfolded his arms. It seemed an eternity before he replied. ‘I love the woman I thought you were, the one I thought I married. I can't love Dawn. I've tried so hard but I just can't. When I think about what she did . . . what you did . . .' He screwed his face up. He looked as if he were in pain.