Close My Eyes

  I look up. ‘That’s a good idea.’

  Art puts his arm around my shoulders. ‘Absolutely.’

  A few minutes later we’re outside the clinic and heading home in a taxi. Art refuses to travel any other way. He could have a driver if he wanted one, now that Loxley Benson is so successful, but he hates any appearance of elitism. I tell him taxis are just as elitist but he says they’re a practical solution – public transport being so slow and Art’s time being money.

  We don’t speak. I’m still reeling. Suddenly I realize he’s speaking to me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’ He takes my hand and holds it between both of his.

  I look down. The nail on the first finger of my left hand is bitten right down and the skin around the nail is chewed and red raw. I curl it over, out of sight. I hadn’t even realized my finger had been in my mouth.

  Art’s fingers exert a soft pressure. ‘Why did you let me make the appointment if you were so sure you don’t want any more IVF?’

  Through the taxi window, the sun is low above Regent’s Park. A perfect burning orange disc against a clear navy sky with no sign of the earlier clouds. I turn back to Art. His eyes glitter in the soft light and my heart lurches with love for him. For all his ruthlessness in business, Art’s fundamentally the kindest man I know.

  ‘I’m sorry about the appointment,’ I say. ‘I know it’s not fair . . .’ I tail off, wishing my thoughts weren’t so confused.

  ‘You know you’re nuts, don’t you?’ Art says affectionately.

  We stare at each other for a moment, then Art leans forward. ‘Can you at least explain to me what you’re worried about, Gen? Because I only want . . . that is, everything I do, it’s all for you, you know that. I just want to understand, because I can’t see how not trying again is the right thing.’

  I nod, trying to work out what to say. How I can explain what feels so muddled and fragile in my own head.

  ‘I can’t think in terms of “replacing” Beth,’ I say.

  It hurts to use her name. But not to say it denies her existence, which is worse. My stomach twists.

  ‘I didn’t mean replace.’ Art dismisses his previous word with a shrug. He sits upright. ‘Obviously we can’t replace her. But we can have the experience of being parents, which her dying cheated us of.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Art fingers his collar, feeling for the hidden nick in the cotton. ‘Then let me know for both of us.’

  ‘What about the money?’ I frown. ‘We’ve already spent so much.’

  Art waves his hand. ‘That’s the least of our problems.’

  It’s true, though I still can’t quite get used to how much Art is earning. It’s not that we were struggling before: Loxley Benson has been doing well for a long time, but it’s really taken off this year. In fact, right now, it’s one of the fastest-growing small businesses in the UK.

  ‘I don’t mean the amount,’ I say. ‘It’s the whole thing of sending good money after bad and—’

  ‘Jesus, Gen, it’s not that much money. Just a few grand. And me doing The Trials is getting us more work every day. A woman at a client meeting the other day, she’s involved in some government initiative and she wants to talk to me at the Brussels meeting tomorrow about bringing me in. We’re doing really well, Gen, like I told you we would. We’re about to go massive.’

  ‘But . . .’ I stop, unable to say what I truly feel, which is that Art’s business success makes me feel inadequate. It’s not fair, when he works so hard for us, but being pregnant made me his equal. Like I was making a proper contribution to our marriage at last. And now, the reminder that he makes money hand over fist highlights how I have failed to keep my end of the unspoken deal between us.

  ‘You have to want this, Gen. We can do it. I will find a way.’

  The words, the set of his mouth, his whole body . . . it’s all utterly convincing. And, I know from experience, virtually impossible to resist.

  ‘You really want to try, don’t you?’

  Art shrugs. ‘What’s the alternative? Adoption?’

  I shake my head. That’s one thing we’ve both always agreed on at least. If we’re going to have a baby, it should be our baby.

  ‘Exactly.’ Art leans forward. ‘I do want this, Gen.’ He pauses and his mouth trembles. ‘But not unless you want it too.’

  For a fraction of a second he looks vulnerable, like a little boy, and I see how afraid he is that I will never move on from Beth dying and that our love will slip away from us because of it . . . because one day I will have to choose between letting go of Beth and letting go of Art.

  ‘I want to do this with you, Gen,’ he whispers. ‘Please try and see that.’

  The taxi slows to a halt at the traffic lights separating Camden High Street from Kentish Town Road. Art and I met in Camden, fourteen years ago at a big New Year’s Eve party I’d gone to with my best friend, Hen. Art was twenty-six and in his first year of running his own business. He’d blagged his way into the party with a bunch of his colleagues because he thought there’d be useful people there. I was just up for free drinks and a laugh.

  We met at the bar, when one of Art’s colleagues – Tris – bumped into Hen and it turned out they were old uni friends who’d lost touch. Of course, Hen introduced me to Tris who, in turn, introduced me to Art. Art bought a round of drinks, most of which I knocked over on my way back from the Ladies. He was sweet about that, immediately buying another round, even though – I found out later – he could barely afford to eat at the time. We got chatting. He told me about Loxley Benson, how he’d set up the business with a good friend just months before, how he wanted to ride the new wave of online trading, how passionately he felt about making sure the investments his company supported were ethical and socially and environmentally responsible.

  I told him how I worked for a boring homes magazine, writing about kitchens and paint schemes, but how one day I wanted to write a novel. I remember being blown away by how driven he was. How he was prepared to take any risk and suffer any setback to get where he wanted. How it wasn’t so much about making money as making a difference.

  Even then, I knew that whatever Art wanted, he was going to get.

  Including me.

  ‘Gen?’

  I bite my lip. It’s dark outside now, the street lamps starting to glow as the taxi drags its way past the dreary shops and crowded pavements of Kentish Town High Street. If he wasn’t married to me, Art would probably have four kids by now. He should have this. I shouldn’t stop him from having this.

  ‘It’s the hope,’ I say. ‘I can handle anything except the hope.’

  Art laughs. I know he doesn’t really understand what I mean. But he loves me and that’s enough.

  ‘Why don’t you check out the ICSI stats,’ I say. ‘See what you think. Then we can decide.’

  Art nods enthusiastically and reaches into his pocket. A second later his phone buzzes and I realize he must have had it turned off for most of the last hour. I can’t remember the last time he turned it off for more than a few minutes.

  He’s still talking on the phone as we reach Crouch End and walk into the house. Lilia, our Slovakian cleaner, is just leaving. As I shut the door behind her I notice the post piled up by the hall radiator. I pick it up and wander into the kitchen. We don’t use the other downstairs rooms that much. It’s a big house for just two people.

  I flick idly through the mail. There’s a postcard from my mum, who’s on holiday with her latest boyfriend in Australia. I set that down on the kitchen table, then take the rest and stand over the recycling pile, chucking the junk mail on top of it. I put aside two bills and an envelope bearing the logo of Art’s solicitors. More junk mail follows: magazines, takeaway flyers . . . How can we receive so many pointless bits of post in just one day?

  Art is still talking on the phone. His voice – low and insistent – grows louder as he passes the kitchen door, then fade
s again. As I throw a couple of catalogues onto the recycling pile, it teeters and finally collapses.

  ‘Shit.’ As I pick everything up, Art reappears.

  ‘Gen?’

  ‘How on earth is it possible for us to generate this much paper?’ I say.

  ‘They’ve brought forward tomorrow’s Brussels meeting, so Siena’s booked me onto an earlier flight.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The meeting’s at ten. I’ll be leaving here just after six, so I was wondering about an early night . . .’ Art hesitates, his eyebrows raised. I know what he’s thinking. I smile. At least it should mean the subject of IVF gets dropped for the rest of the evening.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  We have dinner and I watch some nonsense on TV while Art makes a couple of calls and checks various spreadsheets. My programme segues to the News at Ten. As the first ad break starts, I feel Art’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Come to bed?’

  We go upstairs. Art drops his clothes on the red-and-orange-striped rug and shakes back the duvet. He gets into bed and grins up at me. I lie down and let him touch me.

  To be honest, I like the idea of Art wanting to have sex with me more than the sex itself. Our conversation about the IVF is still running through my head, and it’s hard to let go and relax. I move a little, trying to be turned on, but it’s just not happening. Art approaches sex pretty much like he approaches everything else – when he wants it he goes and gets it. Not that I’m saying he’s ever been unfaithful. And I don’t mean he’s bad in bed, either. Just that he didn’t have much idea when I met him, so everything he does now I taught him to do. And he’s still doing it, exactly like I showed him fourteen years ago.

  ‘Gen?’ Art’s propped up on his elbow beside me, frowning. I hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped touching me.

  I smile and take his hand and put it back between my legs. I will myself to respond. It works, a little. Enough, anyway. Art’s convinced I’m finally letting go and eases himself inside me.

  I let my mind drift. My focus turns to the pile of recycling downstairs. All that paper. I know that what really bothers me is the reminder of all the written words out there – the endless magazines and books competing for space on shop shelves. And that’s before you include the internet. I used to be part of it all: I wrote and published three books in the time between marrying Art and getting pregnant with Beth. Sometimes the amount of published material in the world feels suffocating – squeezing the air out of my own words before they have a chance to come to life.

  Art moans and I move again to show willing.

  It’s not just the paper stuff either. Art’s ‘Mr Ethical’ and insists we are ultra-green, with separate boxes for everything: aluminium, cardboard, glass, food waste, plastic . . .

  Sometimes I just want to chuck it all in a black bag like we did when I was growing up. My mind slides to a memory from childhood. I’m struggling to carry a bin bag across the back garden, the grass damp under my feet. I’m hauling it towards Dad, who’s on a rare visit home between tours. The grass smells sweet and fresh. Dad has just mown it and now he’s making a compost heap with the cuttings. I want to help. That’s why I’m carrying the contents of the kitchen bin out to him. He laughs and says most of the contents won’t rot so we make a bonfire instead. I can still remember the smell of the fire, my face burning hot while the cold wind whips across my back.

  Art’s kissing my neck as he thrusts harder into me. I just want him to get on with it . . . get it over . . . As soon as we’re done he’ll fall asleep and then I’ll get up and have a cup of tea.

  Art’s breathing is heavier now, his movements more urgent. I know he’s close, but holding back, waiting for me. I smile up at him, knowing he’ll know what I mean. A minute later, he comes with a groan and sinks down onto me. I hold him, feeling him slide out of me and the wetness seeping out onto the bed. I love the way he feels so vulnerable like this, his head on my chest.

  I wait . . .

  Art nuzzles into me, sighing contentedly, then rolls off, leaving just one arm draped over my chest. His breathing deepens and I slip out from under his arm. It’s one of those things that I know, but don’t want to face: our sex life has got into a rut. Unsurprising after so many years, I suppose. And it’s certainly a lot better than during the years when I was obsessed with getting pregnant. I know Art felt under pressure then, having to do it at the right times, and I hated how trying to conceive took all the fun and spontaneity out of it. I stopped checking when I ovulate ages ago but maybe all that history has taken its toll. Or maybe it’s just classic, married sex: predictable, comfortable, safe. I’m not complaining, though. One day I’ll talk to Art properly about it. He’ll listen, I know he will. He’ll want to make it better. Which means he will. I’ve never known Art fail at anything.

  Art’s iPhone rings from his trouser pocket on the floor. He wakes with a start, then sighs as he reaches over the side of the bed to retrieve it.

  As he starts talking, I get up and go downstairs.

  I wake up. The bed beside me is empty. Art is long gone, headed to Heathrow. A damp towel lies across his pillow. Irritated, I push it onto the floor.

  Half an hour later I’m dressed and spreading butter and Marmite on my toast. The day stretches ahead of me. My normal Wednesday morning class has been cancelled and I have no appointments. Not even coffee with Hen. But I have this niggling sense that there’s something I’m supposed to do today.

  You could write, says a voice in my head.

  I ignore it.

  The doorbell rings and I pad to the front door. I’m not expecting anyone. It’s probably just the postman. Still, you can’t be too careful. I hook on the chain, open the door and peer through the crack.

  A woman stands on the doorstep. She’s black and plump and middle-aged.

  I instantly assume she’s a Jehovah’s Witness and brace myself.

  ‘Are you Geniver Loxley?’ Her voice is soft, with a hint of a Midlands accent.

  I stare at her. ‘How do you know my name?’

  The woman hesitates. It seems unlikely that a Jehovah’s Witness would have this kind of detail, so I’m now assuming some kind of invasive mailing-list scenario. Still, the woman lacks the bravado of the sales-trained. In fact, now I’m looking closely at her I realize she’s nervous. She’s wearing a cheap suit made of some kind of nylon and sweat stains are creeping out from under the armpits.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ she stammers.

  I wait, my heart suddenly beating fast. Has Art been in an accident? Or someone else I know? The door is still on its chain. I open it properly. The woman presses her lips together. Her eyes are wide with fear and embarrassment.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  ‘It’s . . .’ The woman takes a deep breath. ‘It’s your baby.’

  I stare at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  She hesitates. ‘She’s alive.’ The woman’s dark eyes pierce through me. ‘Your baby, Beth, is alive.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stand in the doorway feeling my stomach drop away. I am still holding the door chain. I press my finger against the metal nub until it hurts.

  ‘What?’ I say. A car zooms past the house. A man shouts in the distance. The world is going on somewhere else. Here, everything has been turned inside out. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh goodness.’ The woman’s hands flutter up to her face. They’re surprisingly delicate for her size. ‘Oh, Mrs Loxley, please may I come in?’

  I tense, all my instincts shrieking a warning through my head.

  Whatever this woman has to say, she can say out here. I’m not letting her into my home. I hold the door steady, in case the woman tries to barge past me, but she just shuffles from side to side, looking increasingly awkward.

  ‘Why did you say . . . what you said?’ I stammer. ‘Who are you? How do you know my name?’

  ‘Mrs Loxley . . .’ She coughs, a dry, nervous cough. ‘I’m Lucy O’Donnell. My sist
er was Mary Duncan. She died last year.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My sister is . . . was . . . a nurse. She was there with you at the Fair Angel hospital when you had your baby. She told me that your baby was born alive and well.’ The woman puts her hand to her cheek. ‘The doctor who delivered her took her away from you while you were still under the general anaesthetic. He lied to you.’

  ‘No.’ This is all ridiculous. What the hell does this woman think she’s doing? Anger bubbles inside me.

  ‘Yes,’ Lucy insists.

  ‘No. My baby died.’ As I force the words out, my anger boils over. I push the door shut, but Lucy O’Donnell’s scuffed shoe blocks it.

  ‘I know this is a shock,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait down the road. There’s a café . . . Sam’s something . . .? I’ll be there until eleven o’clock. That’s one hour from now.’ She casts me a final glance of appeal, then shifts her shoe.

  I slam the door and turn away, shaking.

  How can this be happening? And why? I don’t understand.

  I can’t stand still. I pace the hall. Then I stop and lean against the wall. The paint on the door jamb opposite is peeling. I stare at the line of exposed wood. We had the whole house painted when we moved in six years ago. It needs doing again. My pulse is racing. I close my eyes.

  Lucy O’Donnell. Mary Duncan. These names mean nothing to me.

  I get out my phone but even as I’m dialling I’m remembering that Art’s in a meeting in Brussels. The call goes to voicemail. I leave a breathless message telling him to ring back urgently and slump against the wall.

  Why would anyone turn up on the doorstep to tell such a monstrous lie? For a joke? As a dare? Though Lucy O’Donnell didn’t look like she was enjoying herself very much. Who would put her up to this?

  Doubt and fear swirl around my head. A thought seizes me and I fly up the stairs. Mary Duncan’s name should be easy enough to check. Surely we must have hung onto some paperwork from the maternity hospital? The Fair Angel was a private, state-of-the-art facility; Art will have a file on it somewhere. I race into his office on the second floor, a large, light room with lots of storage and shelving. I scan the file names in the cabinet: it’s all accounts and clients. Nothing personal.