Close My Eyes

  I find nothing.

  Art walks in at ten that evening. I can hear him on his iPhone as he trudges up the stairs. ‘But is that volume or value, Dan? We gotta be clear.’

  Art ends his call as he enters our bedroom. There are dark shadows under his eyes and his shirt is creased. He looks exhausted, but happy. I lie back against the pillow and watch him cross the room.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, sitting down on the bed beside me.

  ‘Hey.’ I ask about his day and Art talks for a while about the meeting at 10 Downing Street.

  ‘. . . and then the PM came in. He’s much shorter than he looks on TV and he’s definitely had botox or whatever. No lines on his forehead at all. He made a special point of thanking me for being there. Sandrine and I got the policy wonks to talk about their Work Incentives programme, especially the stuff about increasing productivity through demonstrating ethical decision-making. The PM couldn’t believe the Loxley Benson figures.’ Art grins. ‘He listened, Gen, he really did.’

  ‘Sounds brilliant,’ I say. I mean it, but at the same time my mind is running obsessively over everything I’ve been thinking about all day. I wait for him to stop talking, then I take a deep breath. ‘Art?’

  He looks up. ‘What?’

  I meet his gaze. ‘I’m really honestly not saying I believe anything that mad woman said yesterday, but like I told you, it did bring everything up again. It . . . it made me want to see Beth’s death certificate, but I don’t know where it, where anything is . . .’

  ‘Gen . . .’ Art shakes his head, his body visibly tensing. ‘What’s the point in going over all this again? You’re just torturing yourself.’

  I shrug. ‘Sometimes I need to go back to go forward.’

  Art shoots me a tired smile. ‘You’re crazy,’ he says affectionately.

  ‘Sure, I’m crazy.’ I try to smile too. ‘So where are all the papers from back then?’

  I’m so expecting him to tell me that they’ve been lost or that he can’t remember, that it comes as a complete shock when Art swings his legs off the bed and stands to face me, a look of weary concern on his face.

  ‘They’re in the locked cupboard in my office,’ he says. ‘I put them there because I don’t like looking at them. I’ll get them now.’

  And before I can respond, he’s walked out.

  I sit on the bed, my stomach in knots. Am I being cruel to Art over this? I think back to that first week after the stillbirth . . . I can’t remember much at all. Just a few random snatches of conversation. I do remember Art talking about the funeral – he wanted a cremation, but insisted it should be a joint decision. At the time it seemed like the most insignificant detail in the world. But now it means there is no body to dig up. No proof of death.

  I shiver. I’m being morbid.

  Upstairs the floorboards creak violently as Art walks around his office. I lie back on the pillows.

  We scattered Beth’s ashes the following April. I’d been seeing a therapist, at Art and Hen’s suggestion, for several months and felt like I was starting to emerge from the dark sea of my grief, tipping my face at last to the spring sunshine. Of course what I didn’t realize then is that grief, like the seasons, is cyclical. I would just start to feel open to life again, then find myself thrust back under the water, drowning in loss. Perhaps if I had fallen pregnant that year it would have been different, but I didn’t. And every attempt at IVF pushed me deeper and deeper back beneath the waves.

  There’s a final creak from Art’s office floorboards, the sound of his footsteps thundering down the stairs, and he’s back, a red shoebox under his arm. He sets it down on the bed.

  ‘Everything’s in here.’ He doesn’t meet my gaze. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

  He disappears into the bathroom. I know he’s hurt, that he doesn’t want me upsetting myself by raking it up . . .

  But I have to face the truth.

  Heart racing, I lift the lid off the red box. The first paper I pick up is the death certificate. I stare at Beth’s name – chosen in the first flush of our grief because it sounded so delicate and fragile, a soft, simple, sigh of a name. Beth Loxley. It’s strange seeing it written down. I trace my finger over the words – the name of a person who was never properly a person. There’s no word for what Beth is, just as there’s no word for the mother of a stillborn baby. I don’t mind the lack of a label, but it makes what happened harder to talk about. Of course, talking isn’t easy either. When strangers ask if I have children I have to choose whether to explain about Beth, which feels too intimate, or simply say ‘no’, which feels like I’m denying her again.

  I sift through the papers. I’m not any sadder for seeing these, I realize. They’re mostly official forms, just facts and figures. Underneath the Registrar’s death certificate is the medical certificate of stillbirth, signed by Dr Rodriguez. I remember Art explaining to me that he had to take this to the Registrar to get the death certificate. I examine it closely, then filter through the rest of the papers – most of them to do with the funeral arrangements. There’s a leaflet – subtle and understated – for Tapps Funeral Services and a letter from Mr Tapps himself, offering his sympathy for our loss and outlining various practicalities such as the booking of the crematorium and the date of the funeral.

  I don’t want to think about the funeral right now but, even so, Beth’s tiny coffin forces its way into my head . . . The two white lilies Art and I placed on top of it and the numb whisper of my soul as I stared at them.

  Inside the bathroom I can hear the shower running.

  I close my eyes. What am I doing? Art was stricken at that funeral. He could barely walk. How can I make him go through all this again?

  Enough.

  I pick up the bundle of papers. As I place everything back in the box, a business card floats out onto the bed. It’s Dr Rodriguez’s card, with the number and address for the Fair Angel. In the bathroom the water stops running. I hesitate for a second, then for reasons that I refuse to articulate to myself, I slide the Tapps letter and the business card under the mattress beneath me. I put everything else back into the red box, replace the lid and push it away across the bed.

  A minute later and Art’s out of the shower. He walks towards the bed, a towel wrapped around his waist. He still works out at weekends sometimes, but the muscles in his arms aren’t defined like they used to be – and there’s definitely the beginning of a slight paunch around his middle. We’re both getting older. Sometimes I can almost sense time as a force of nature, racing relentlessly into the future, with Art at the heart of the ride and me watching from the sidelines, unable to join in.

  ‘Found what you were looking for?’ He still sounds hurt.

  ‘Yes.’ I hesitate. ‘Did you check out what that MDO payment was for?’

  ‘No,’ he groans. ‘I forgot, but I know it was some sort of business loan. I just can’t remember the details.’

  ‘Right.’ I’m wondering if that is really true. Art never forgets anyone he’s done business with.

  ‘Right, okay, well when you get a moment . . .’ I say, vaguely. ‘Thanks for getting everything out for me.’

  Art nods, then whisks the box away. He takes it upstairs, back to his office, then comes back and flops into bed.

  ‘I’m knackered.’ He sighs, then picks up his phone and starts scrolling through emails. With all the international business Loxley Benson is involved in, there’s not an hour of the day when people don’t try and contact him.

  I get up. The house is cold, the heating has gone off. I pull on a pair of thick socks and pad downstairs. Lucy O’Donnell’s phone number is still in my coat pocket. I take it out and creep into the kitchen. I stop at the door and listen. No noises from upstairs. Art must still be busy with his emails.

  I unfurl the scrap of paper and stare at Lucy’s neat handwriting. The carefully printed numbers look more like the work of a primary school teacher than a con artist. I hesitate. I don’t know why I need to speak to her
again. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. I just know that I can’t let it go, like Art wants me to. If I’m going to take things any further then I need as much information as I can get. I mean, suppose just some of Lucy’s story is true? Not the part about Art being involved, of course, but babies can be stolen, can’t they? And once an idea has been planted in your head, you can’t just toss it out again. You have to follow it through to the end.

  I move silently through the kitchen without turning on the light and into the utility room. Hands shaking, I take a deep breath and call Lucy O’Donnell’s number. It’s unobtainable. I don’t even get the chance to leave a message. I wait a couple of minutes, then try again, just in case. Still nothing. Maybe it’s just as well. Surely this is all the proof I needed that the woman was a flake. Crazy. Deluded.

  I save the phone number on my mobile, then throw the scrap of paper in the bin. As I come back out into the hall I hear the creak of the office floorboards on the second floor. I stop, my heart racing. Is Art up there again? Did he somehow hear me down here making a call? Why did that make him go back up to his office?

  I wait a few seconds. There are no more floorboard noises. Then I go up the stairs to our bedroom. Art is lying on the bed, just where I left him. He looks over as I walk in. ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’ I glance around. I’m all on edge. ‘Did you go upstairs again, to your office?’

  Art shakes his head, going back to his phone. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh.’ My pulse is skipping about. Why on earth would he lie about that? ‘I thought I heard the floorboards creaking.’

  ‘Those things?’ Art raises a disdainful eyebrow. ‘Those bloody things have got a mind of their own. In fact, didn’t you say you were going to get them sorted this year?’ He grins at my recalcitrance and pats the duvet. ‘Are you coming to bed?’

  I get in and take off my thick socks. Maybe I imagined hearing the floorboards. I am certainly jittery enough.

  Art turns out the light and lies back on the pillow with a sigh.

  ‘Art?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  I’ve been thinking about the day, a few months into the pregnancy, when after obsessive research into alternative birth options, I found the Fair Angel private maternity hospital and we went to meet the obstetrician who would oversee my pregnancy and labour.

  ‘Did you ever do any background checks on Dr Rodriguez – you know, basic research on where he came from, or his qualifications or his circumstances?’

  ‘No,’ Art says after a second. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I guess I’m thinking how much did we really know about him?’

  Art snorts with derision and turns over so his back is towards me. ‘Rodriguez had an impressive CV and recommendations coming out of his backside, Gen. He showed us that stuff and a bunch of personal thank you letters the first time we met him. Fair Angel had a brilliant reputation, too.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Gen, don’t go there.’ Art pauses, then turns over again to plant a swift kiss on my cheek. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘’Night.’

  Seconds later Art’s breathing evens and deepens, but it’s a long time before I fall asleep myself.

  I stared at Ginger Tall’s fist. A bit more wee came out of me. It felt warm at first, then cold. I couldn’t stop it.

  I looked down. The rain jabbed at the back of my neck. Run, I thought. Run away. But they were blocking my way back to the fence.

  ‘You’re a loser, Pig Face.’ Ginger Tall’s fingers on the hand that wasn’t a fist hurt my arm.

  Broken Tooth took my other arm, pressing and twisting the skin.

  I wanted to yell them away but my yells were stuck in my throat. Ginger Tall moved so close I could feel warm breath in my ear. ‘You’re an ugly, pig-faced loser.’

  ‘A fucking loser,’ Broken Tooth added.

  I knew that was a bad word. I stared at the wet stones by my feet, waiting for it to be over. The fist punched into my tummy. It hurt. I closed my eyes. Another punch. Another. Then it stopped.

  I held my breath. Ginger Tall’s shoes turned. Broken Tooth’s shoes turned. Then there were just my shoes. I stared at them so hard my eyes burned. I looked at my trousers. There was a small dark patch right in the front of them so if anyone looked they would know I had done a bad wee.

  Down there felt damp and sticky and cold.

  I put my hand over so no one would see. Then I crawled back under the fence.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I’m still asleep when Morgan arrives the next morning. Her brisk, sharp rings on the doorbell rouse me from my bed. I grab a cardigan from the chair, pull it on over my pyjamas and stagger downstairs wiping the sleep from my eyes.

  I can see Morgan’s slender outline through the glass in the front door. Instinctively I glance at the hall mirror. My hair is sticking up in different directions and yesterday’s make-up is smudged under my eyes. I hesitate, making a half-hearted effort to wipe my face with my fingers and run my hand through my hair, trying to smooth it down.

  The doorbell rings again.

  It’s hopeless. Whatever I do, I’m never going to match up to her. With a sigh I open the door.

  Considering she’s just arrived off a transatlantic flight, Morgan looks amazing. She’s dressed in a fitted black suit with a real-fur trim, black-and-cream kitten heels and a leather clutch bag. The bottom of her sleek dark hair forms a perfect line. Two huge suitcases stand beside her on the front door step.

  ‘Gen, honey,’ Morgan coos, looking me up and down. ‘You look fabulous.’

  She’s not a great liar. Even as she’s speaking I can see her eyes widening with the horror of my appearance. That’s Morgan all over, though. She can’t help but come across as condescending, even when she’s trying to be warm and friendly. It’s an unsettling personality trait and one which I’m certain partially explains why, at nearly forty-two, the woman has never had a boyfriend for longer than three months.

  ‘I just woke up,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Morgan’s voice softens into concern. ‘I’m so sorry but I did say what time I was arriving and . . .’ She checks her elegant, diamond-studded watch, ‘it is after ten.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, tugging the cardigan more tightly around me. There’s an egg stain on the lapel. Great.

  ‘So how are the party plans going?’ Morgan says brightly, stepping into the hallway. She glances back at her suitcases, still standing on the doorstep.

  In Morgan’s home in Edinburgh, her holiday homes in Martha’s Vineyard and Tuscany or in any of the fancy hotels she normally stays at there would be men to help carry in the bags.

  ‘Party plans are going fine.’ I reach over the threshold and drag Morgan’s two suitcases into the hall. Art can lug them upstairs later.

  There’s an anxious knot in my chest all day, but I have no time to think about any of the stuff that was keeping me awake last night. Morgan – though she claims only to want to help – is full of demands: ‘Do you have any juice without the pulp?’ . . . ‘I don’t want to interfere but do you really think you’ve bought enough canapés?’ . . . ‘I can’t see any bags of ice in your freezer, should we order some in?’ . . . ‘Do you mind showing me where you keep the towels? I’m so sorry but I need to change the one you’ve given me, my skin’s terribly sensitive . . .’

  On top of this, the phone doesn’t stop ringing. Most of the calls are from friends, checking on details of the party, asking what time to arrive or whether they can bring anything. I drift from the kitchen to the dining room, where bottles of wine are stacked floor-to-ceiling, trying to work out what to do and which order to do it in.

  Morgan disappears upstairs at about three, shortly after which Hen pops over. Nat is on a play date with a friend, giving Hen an hour or two to help me prepare for the party. While I’m searching for the fairy lights from last Christmas that I want to drape over the living-room mirror, Hen obligingly goe
s to fetch a bumper pack of crisps from the stash in the garage. She doesn’t reappear. After ten minutes I start to worry she’s tripped over the garden furniture or something else stored in the garage and hurt herself, so I go looking for her.

  I hear her before I see her. She’s just inside the utility room, talking on the phone. Her voice is low and conspiratorial.

  ‘I know she’s my best friend,’ she is saying. ‘But she’s not letting it go.’ I freeze. Hen’s voice is a mix of pity and irritation. ‘I have tried talking to her.’ Another pause. ‘No, not yet.’

  Confusion turns to anger and shame in my head. I can’t bear to hear any more. ‘Hen?’ I call out.

  There’s a muffled whisper from inside the utility room, then Hen reappears. ‘Sorry.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Got sidetracked.’

  I open my mouth ready to challenge her, then close it again. Who she was talking to? Art? I don’t want to think about it.

  I’m withdrawn as she comes into the kitchen, but Hen chatters away, all breezy like there’s nothing wrong. We put the crisps she brought from the garage into bowls then string up the fairy lights together. After that, I retreat to the kitchen while Hen spends an hour setting out candles and reorganizing the furniture in the living room to allow more space ‘for dancing’.

  I can’t help but laugh when I see what she’s done. I point out that Art hates dancing.

  Hen rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be so negative,’ she says, and though her tone is light, there’s a cutting edge to her voice. ‘I’m sure he’d dance if you asked him.’

  I feel uneasy. Does she think I’m being unfair on Art? Is her caustic tone connected to what I just overheard her say about me ‘not letting it go’?

  Hen obviously catches my discomfort. ‘Sorry, Gen,’ she says, waving her hand, as if to direct the tension between us into the next room. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’