Never Close Your Eyes (16 page)

Pamela's eyes narrowed.

‘Quite right.' Tristram nodded. ‘What would have been a better way of putting it, anyone?'

Pamela's mouth was thin and pursed. Hah! Served her right, Evie thought, for being so mean about her writing last month.

Russell chipped in. ‘Would a better way of putting it be: “Her sister's shoulders relaxed and she breathed a sigh of relief”?'

‘Absolutely,' Tristram said. ‘Let the readers interpret for themselves. Much more effective. Any other examples?'

Several members of the group spotted further errors. Evie thought Pamela looked close to tears. She felt almost sorry for her.

‘Well, I think it's all nonsense,' Pamela said when the dissection had finished. ‘Quite frankly there needs to be a narrator guiding the reader. Think of Jane Austen – she was ever-present.'

Carol leaned over and whispered loudly in Evie's ear: ‘She thinks she's Jane Austen now.'

Evie had to stifle a giggle.

She, Nic and Becca stayed behind for a few minutes at the end of the class. Evie couldn't contain her curiosity about Nic's train tracks.

‘So what's this all about?' she asked. The braces were so bright, the sort of thing you usually see on teenagers. They were rather startling.

Nic shrugged. ‘Didn't I tell you? I've always hated my crooked tooth.' She opened her mouth and pointed to where her right canine was, behind a mass of metal. ‘I just decided now is as good a time as any to have it straightened.'

Becca raised her perfectly plucked, almost black eyebrows. Evie thought how she
would
love to know what her natural hair colour was. There was no way she was going to ask again, though.

‘How long will the braces be on for?' she asked Nic, who was tucking a strand of blond hair behind an ear, revealing a delicate diamond stud.

‘Up to a year,' she replied.

‘A year?' Evie gasped. ‘Gawd. Mind you, they are sort of fetching, I suppose. I remember I longed for braces when I was at school but I didn't need them. I used to put metal paperclips across my teeth and pretend.'

Evie heard a cough. She turned to the back of the room. It was Carol, fiddling in her basket looking for something. Evie had been so engrossed in talking to Nic and Becca that she hadn't realised Carol was still there.

‘Have you lost something?' Evie asked.

Carol looked flustered. ‘I can't find my bicycle key.'

Evie couldn't help smiling. Carol had spilled what looked like the entire contents of her basket on the floor. There were paper hankies, a purse, a hairbrush, a pair of tan tights (for some reason), and a surprising number of pens and pencils.

‘Ah, here it is!' Carol cried, brandishing a key. ‘I knew it was in here somewhere.' She stuffed everything back in her basket and stood up.

‘We're going for a drink. Fancy coming?' Nic asked.

Carol moved closer to the women. ‘Thank you for asking, dear,' she said. ‘It's very kind of you. But I'd better get home to let my cats out.'

Evie hadn't noticed before, but Carol was wearing jeans and trainers and a flowery shirt with a surprisingly jaunty red tank top. The youthful effect was somewhat spoiled, however, by her straggly grey hair.

To Evie's surprise, Carol came right up close and peered in her face. ‘Are you all right, dear?' she asked. She looked really concerned.

‘Fine, thanks,' Evie replied, taking a step back. ‘Why d'you ask?'

Carol reached out and touched her cheek. Evie flinched. She certainly hadn't been expecting that.

‘You look so tired,' Carol said, her forehead wrinkled. ‘I know you've been having a hard time. You must take care of yourself.'

Evie felt a lump in her throat. She hadn't realised it was so obvious, even to a relative stranger like Carol. ‘No, I'm fine, honestly,' she said. ‘But thanks anyway.'

Carol sighed, put on her blue anorak, which had fallen on the floor beside Evie, and picked up her basket. ‘Well, I'll be going. Have a nice drink.' She gave Nic a funny look. ‘Have you done something to your teeth?'

Nic sighed. ‘Yes, I've got braces.'

‘How extraordinary! I thought they were just for teenagers. Well, I've seen everything now.'

Evie winced. She didn't dare look at Nic. Carol did have a habit of putting her foot in it. She reached the door and turned.

‘And look after Evie, you two,' she said, wagging a finger at Nic and Becca, who glanced at each other, surprised. ‘She needs you, you know.'

Becca felt slightly drunk as she opened the heavy iron gate and tottered up her garden path. She'd been tempted to take a taxi but her house was only a short walk from the pub. She might be on a million pounds a year but she'd worked incredibly hard for her money and she didn't want to throw it away.

She fumbled for her key and put it in the lock. She hiccuped, thinking she'd allowed Nic to top her up at least once too often. Becca cursed herself. She hated being drunk, that feeling of being out of control. She'd regret it when the alarm went off at 6 a.m., too.

Nic herself had seemed fine, not at all squiffy, just more voluble than usual – if that was possible. Becca marvelled at her capacity. It was quite impressive, particularly for one so small.

To her surprise Tom was home already, sitting on the sofa in the downstairs television room watching football in the inevitable dressing gown. His bare feet were resting on the low mahogany coffee table, and there was a bowl of half-eaten crisps on the chair beside him. He didn't look up. Becca felt hugely irritated.

‘I'm home,' she said, slipping off her high heels and navy mac. She'd had to go straight to the writing group from work. ‘In case you hadn't noticed.'

‘Hello, darling,' he replied, his eyes still glued to the TV screen. Suddenly he lurched forward, his fists clenched. ‘Ooh, ooh,' he said. ‘Yesss!' He leaped up, punching the air, his dressing gown flapping open to reveal rather more than Becca wanted to see right at this moment.

‘Sorry,' he replied sheepishly, closing the dressing gown and sitting down. ‘Great goal.'

Becca plonked herself on to the brown leather bucket chair opposite him. She'd bought it from Liberty several years ago and she loved it.

‘Good day?' he asked, grabbing a handful of crisps and shoving them in his mouth. Some crumbs fell on the sofa. Becca bit her lip, hoping they wouldn't leave greasy marks.

‘Busy,' she replied. ‘You?'

‘Good laugh,' he said. ‘Had a leaving do at the Lamb at lunchtime that went on most of the afternoon.'

Becca prickled with annoyance. ‘Didn't your boss mind?'

Tom snorted. ‘Nah, fortunately we've got this new reporter who's extremely keen. He's always more than delighted to cover for us.'

Becca sniffed. ‘It doesn't sound very professional. You should be careful.'

At last Tom looked at her. ‘You're in a bad mood. What's the matter?'

She wanted him to turn off the TV, ask her to sit beside him, put his arm around her and listen while she talked. But once she started, she mightn't stop. Then where would she be? She couldn't tell him. Not any of it. She straightened her shoulders and stood up.

‘Nothing's the matter,' she said. ‘I'm just tired, that's all.'

‘Well, go to bed then.' He turned back to the football. ‘I'll be up in a minute, when this has finished.'

‘I'll be asleep by then,' she replied.

Chapter Fifteen

Her heart was thumping and there were butterflies in her stomach as she turned the corner into Roupell Street. It was dark, but the lights of the old-fashioned lamp-posts gave off a warm glow and halfway down the road she could see the usual cluster of men and women in suits outside the King's Arms.

There were always people drinking outside, unless it was pouring with rain. Tonight wasn't wet or cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was blowy; a typical autumn evening. Becca wouldn't have wanted to stay out. She was glad that she was wearing a cardigan under her office mac.

Normally she'd take her time to walk down the narrow little road, past the charming Victorian cottages which opened straight on to the pavement. Roupell Street was like a little oasis after the hustle and bustle of Waterloo Station. She loved it.

She usually enjoyed, too, strolling into the picturesque pub with its cosy wood-panelled rooms and bizarre memorabilia, including a collection of ancient sewing machines. But today she was too nervous to notice any of it. She just hoped that she wouldn't need to rush to the loo. Her stomach was churning. In stressful situations, it was always the first thing to react.

She pushed past the office workers on the pavement and walked slowly into the bar. It was reasonably full for a Monday night but there were a few empty tables. She wondered, momentarily, if she looked all right. She'd reapplied her brown lipstick several times on the train but there had been quite a wind. She tucked her long hair behind her ears in two quick movements – too late to comb it now – and scanned the room.

A middle-aged man with grey, balding hair was sitting on his own in a corner. He was wearing a dark, shabby suit and was slumped over his pint in a way that suggested defeat and world-weariness. Not Gary, surely? In his Facebook picture he looked much younger. But it might have been an old photo.

The man looked up. He had a fleshy nose that seemed to retreat into the folds of his cheeks. Becca sighed with relief. It certainly wasn't Gary, so where was he? They'd agreed to meet at 8 p.m. and it was now ten past. Maybe he'd been held up. Maybe he wouldn't show at all.

She wandered into the conservatory at the back of the pub and checked the faces. No Gary, she was pretty certain. But she waited for a few moments to make it obvious that she was looking for someone. One or two people gazed at her with mild interest before turning back to their companions and drinks. The room was cramped and noisy and Becca had a sudden urge to get out fast, into the fresh air, and scuttle home.

Instead, she went back to the main bar and ordered a gin and tonic. She needed it. She took a gulp and sat down at an empty table on the right of the room. From here, she had a pretty good view of the door and would be able to scrutinise anyone coming in.

She was still wearing her coat, so she slid it off. She was quite warm now and decided to remove her pale-blue cashmere cardigan, too. She was wearing a white cotton shirt underneath, tucked into a navy-wool pencil skirt by Armani. She'd spent longer than usual this morning choosing the outfit. She'd opted at first for a silk, flowery Chloé shirt but decided at the last minute that it was too flashy. Luckily the white shirt was still fairly crisp.

The wooden door swung open and Becca knew him immediately. He was smaller than she'd imagined but he looked strong and athletic. His receding hair was cut extremely short, and there was the suggestion of mid-brown-coloured sideburns, worn in the fashionable, longer way. Becca quite liked them. They made him look streetwise and slightly edgy.

He was wearing a black leather jacket and an open-necked shirt, with a black and red rucksack over his shoulder. He looked totally different from the City types that she worked with – more casual. He caught her eye and gave her a big, friendly grin. Becca's heart skipped. This was going to be all right after all.

‘Hey there!' he said, approaching her table. She got up and he leaned across to kiss her. She hesitated, wondering whether to expect two kisses or just one. He seemed to hesitate, too. In the confusion, their lips almost met. They laughed with embarrassment.

‘Sorry,' Becca said. ‘I never know what the etiquette is these days.'

He laughed back. ‘Me neither.'

He swung his bag off his shoulder and put it on the floor. Then he took off his jacket and hung it on a chair. ‘Another one?' he asked, motioning to her gin and tonic, which was still half full.

She shook her head. ‘I should get you one.'

He raised a hand. ‘I'm nearest the bar.' Which was true. Becca sat down again.

It was several minutes before he was served, which allowed her to take a closer look at him from behind. On reflection he wasn't small at all, just average – five foot tenish? The same as her. He was wearing a relaxed blue and white striped shirt over dark-blue jeans and thick-soled, brown leather lace-up shoes that looked more suited to weekend rambles than the office. Although his jeans were quite loose-fitting, she could see that he had a nice little bum.

He turned and smiled, a warm, open smile, and carried a pint of what looked like lager with him to the table. ‘At last,' he said, sitting opposite Becca. His gaze rested on her face for a moment. ‘You look great. Now you're here in the flesh, I can see you've hardly changed.'