Never Close Your Eyes (12 page)

Some of her colleagues in the big, open-plan office were at their desks like her, but most were out. In the canteen, probably. There tended to be an exodus around 1.15 to 1.30 p.m. There was a pile of newspapers on her desk that she hadn't had a chance to look at yet. She picked up the
FT
first – her bible – and turned to the Lex column. Then she switched to the
Independent
's financial pages, followed by
The Times
. She was adept, by now, at scanning through and speed-reading just the bits she needed to know. It only took about ten minutes.

Now she opened the
Telegraph
and turned to the sports pages. She was relieved to see a small piece in there by Tom about the Spanish defender leaving Chelsea to rejoin Barcelona. Tom hadn't had anything in there for days, which always worried her.

He was so lazy. He couldn't pull the wool over her eyes. She was terrified that one day he'd get the boot and the awful thing was, he probably wouldn't even care. He'd love to slob around all day in his bloody dressing gown doing nothing.

Irritated, she turned to the middle pages for some light relief. There was a colour photo of a well-known actress leaving a top London nightspot. The paper detected ‘tell-tale dimpled skin' on the back of her thighs. She was rarely without a cigarette in hand, the paper tutted, and that might explain it.

Becca groaned. Give her a break. They hardly ever subjected men to this treatment. She looked more closely at the photo. It was true, though, the actress did have cellulite. And she was so young, too. She resolved to buy some of that expensive anti-cellulite cream that Nic recommended the next time she was in John Lewis. It was worth a try.

Becca checked the clock on her computer screen. Nearly time for her conference call with a UK property analyst. She'd have to engage her brain. Her team was divided by asset classes: Dave headed up the equities team, Rob bonds and cash, while she took a special interest in alternatives, including derivatives and property.

As Chief Investment Officer, she was involved with the management of almost $57 billion of assets globally on behalf of pension funds and other institutional investors. UK commercial property appeared to have peaked and the IPD index in July showed negative capital returns for the first time in a long time.

The smart investors had been trying to reduce volatility and raise cash since the beginning of this year but properties were getting harder to sell and yields had already shifted up by 1 per cent. With the turmoil in the credit markets it would be interesting to see how the highly leveraged investors (who had taken the market away from institutional investors) would react.

The half-hour call went reasonably well. She wrote up the notes immediately afterwards and posted them on the intranet. Since hers was a global company, they posted all fund-manager meeting notes on to a global site so that members of the four regional investment teams (Australasia, Europe, North America and Emerging Markets) could review them straightaway.

She caught up with her management team on her way to get a cup of tea from the canteen. Back at her desk, she did a quick Ocado shop. She felt a bit guilty but the children had to eat and when else was she supposed to do it? Besides, it didn't take long. She was an expert. Then she rang Rob, who was based in New York, to catch up with him, too. He'd been touching base with some specialist credit hedge fund managers to see how they'd fared in the market turmoil.

It was 7.30 p.m. before she finally left the office. Because of the US time difference she'd had to wait to speak to several clients. She'd saved a few of the market updates that had come in by email during the day on her BlackBerry to read on the train. Before heading home she'd checked Bloomberg to see where European markets closed and how the US was going that day.

She was relieved, when she stepped out into the cool evening air, to find that it had stopped raining. She wouldn't need to get her umbrella out. She scurried along the darkening streets, click-clacking in her high heels towards Bank tube station, before dropping down into the sweaty bowels of London to catch the drain back to Waterloo.

She hadn't thought about James and Alice all day, she'd been too busy. But now she felt a stab of longing; she hoped Alice would still be awake when she returned, even though it would be naughty of Monica, the au pair, not to have got her to sleep earlier.

The tube was full, despite the time of night, and Becca couldn't get a seat. She held on to the rail overhead, bumping occasionally into the short woman beside her in a beige mac.

‘Sorry,' Becca apologised.

The woman smiled. ‘No problem. Is it always this packed? I'm not used to these crowds. I'm only in London for a couple of days for meetings.'

Becca started. The woman was from the North-East, you could tell by her soft Geordie accent. You rarely heard accents like that in London. A wave of longing crashed through Becca, making her gasp. She'd never been back, not once. Never would; it would be too dangerous. She swayed slightly, managing to steady herself.

‘I'm afraid it is – always this busy,' she said to the woman carefully. ‘I'm used to it.'

‘I could never get used to it,' the woman replied. ‘I like a bit of peace and quiet, me. The countryside around Newcastle, Durham Cathedral, Whitley Bay. They're my spiritual home.'

Becca practically ran out of the train station down the high street towards home. Her feet were killing her and she was aware that people were staring. She must look a strange sight in her high heels, long dark hair streaming behind her, black Donna Karan mac flapping at her shins. They must be wondering why she was in such a hurry. Her laptop felt very heavy. She just wanted to get home, to throw her arms around her children and breathe in their sweet, comforting smell.

She didn't care that Tom wouldn't be home for hours, nor that it might take ages to get James and Alice to sleep. She didn't care that she was tired and hungry and that she'd have to eat supper alone. She'd have given anything to sit down with that woman and ask if Fenwick's was still in the same place in Newcastle city centre. Was the Metro working and could you still buy stotty cake and slabs of pease pudding in that baker's off the main square?

She knew now that she was going to meet up with Gary and ask him all those questions and more. She was going to start to piece the jigsaw puzzle back together, wherever it might lead her, whatever the outcome.

She had no alternative. There was no going back. After all these years, a brief exchange with a strange woman on the train had swept all her hard-won choices clean away.

Chapter Twelve

Evie admired the two little round box trees in square terracotta pots on either side of Nic's black front door. She wished that she had a pair of secateurs, though. They could do with a trim. They were getting out of shape.

She rang the bell. Nic seemed to take an age to answer. Evie pressed her nose against the stained glass and peered through. At last she saw Nic's silhouette coming down the hall.

Evie did a double take when she saw her friend. ‘What's the matter?' she asked. She couldn't help it.

Nic looked terrible: she was wearing a baggy beige cashmere jumper and dark-blue jeans that showed off her tiny, neat figure but her face was white and pasty and there were beads of sweat on her upper lip and forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot, too.

‘You ought to be in bed,' Evie went on, concerned.

Nic laughed. ‘I'm fine. Just had a bit of a late night, that's all.'

She led Evie into her large, bright kitchen at the back of the house. It's where she always took friends. She and Alan rarely seemed to use the other downstairs rooms. Evie looked around. The place was a tip, with dirty mugs, glasses and plates on virtually every surface. There was a stale smell of food and alcohol, too.

‘Blimey. You must have had quite a night. Midweek, too. Who came over?'

Nic had to move some of the dishes in the sink out of the way so that she could fill the kettle. ‘Fiona and Natalie,' she said nonchalantly. ‘The kids came for tea and everyone ended up staying rather longer than intended.' She gave Evie her naughty-little-girl look.

Evie shook her head. She wasn't impressed. Nic was always doing this, kidnapping mothers, including her, and plying them with wine on a school night.

‘I don't know how you do it,' Evie went on. ‘I wouldn't be able to get up in the morning. It's not good for you, you know.'

Nic sat at the rectangular oak table looking out over the garden while she waited for the kettle to boil. She rubbed her eyes. ‘I need a facelift,' she said suddenly. ‘Where's a good place to go, do you know?'

‘You do not need a facelift,' Evie said crossly. ‘You need an early night. You're beautiful as you are.'

‘No I'm not,' Nic moaned. ‘I don't want to go down the Botox path again after my last experience but I need something done. Look.' She pinched the bags under her eyes. ‘They don't spring back any more. The pinch mark just stays there.'

‘If you have a facelift Becca and I will have to have one, too,' Evie said. ‘And I can't afford it, so it's not fair. I'm not going to go round looking like your grandmother whatever you may think.'

Nic laughed. She had a surprisingly big mouth and her smile seemed to fill her face. ‘OK, OK, it was only an idea. Actually, I don't just need a facelift, I need a whole new life.'

Evie looked at her. ‘That bad? Do you want to talk about it?'

Nic bit her lip. ‘Not really. But thanks anyway.'

Evie felt this was her cue to change tack. ‘I was wondering if Michael could borrow one of Alan's waistcoats,' she asked. ‘You know he's in
Oliver
? He needs to look like a Victorian urchin. I seem to remember Alan has quite a collection. Do you think he'd mind?'

‘Of course not,' Nic said. ‘He hasn't worn them for ages. I wish Dom had auditioned, but he hates acting.'

‘He may change.'

Nic was picking at a piece of fluff on her jumper. Her hands were trembling. Evie frowned.

The kettle switched itself off. Evie sprang up. ‘Let me get the coffee. Where do you keep it?'

Once the drinks were made, Nic took the mug from Evie and cupped her hands around it. ‘I do feel pretty ghastly,' she admitted. ‘Maybe I'm going down with something.'

Evie took a swig of coffee. ‘You should go back to bed. I'll collect Dominic.'

‘I'll be all right. I've got things to do today. This coffee's a godsend.'

‘Was Alan with you last night?' Evie asked, noticing the crushed crisps on the floor.

Nic laughed. ‘What do you think? He went straight up to his study the minute he got in. Hardly even took time to say hello. You know what he's like. But hey!' she added. ‘We managed to have quite a party without him!'

Evie realised now probably wasn't the right time but she couldn't help it. It was the thought of people partying that did it. She looked down at the table. ‘Helen's pregnant,' she blurted.

‘What?' Nic looked really shocked. ‘Oh God. When did you find out?'

‘Monday, after coming back from yours. Neil was there waiting. I haven't told the children yet. He says he wants to take them out for dinner with Helen and tell them then. Have a celebration.' She made a face.

‘Bastard,' said Nic. ‘Oh, Evie, I'm so sorry.' She put her hand on her friend's and gave it a squeeze. ‘How do you feel?'

‘Pretty crap,' Evie admitted. ‘I'm worried about the kids, too, Freya especially. I think they'll take it badly. They haven't accepted Helen at all.'

Evie got up and tried to put some plates in the dishwasher. Speaking about it was making her feel worse.

‘Leave that,' Nic said firmly. ‘Let's talk about something else. Sit down and tell me about your book.'

Evie closed the dishwasher, sat back down and sighed. ‘There's this handsome gladiator, right, called Spiculus, who's been granted his freedom by the emperor and he's now like a freelance bodyguard for wealthy families. My heroine, Cornelia, thinks she's falling in love with him, only she's married to Marcellus.'

Nic rested her elbows on the table and cupped her face in her hands. ‘Mmm?'

‘Cornelia thinks Marcellus doesn't love her,' Evie went on.

‘Why?'

‘I'm getting to that. Because they've only been married a year and he's been spending most of his time at their country villa outside Rome and ignoring her and she's really hurt. So when drop-dead-gorgeous Spiculus comes to work for the family, it's easy to see why she's bowled over. He pays her lots of attention and she's really smitten. The only thing is . . .' Evie looked stricken.