Never Close Your Eyes (19 page)

Evie glanced anxiously at the children. Her heart sank. Michael, who got out of the car first, looked confused. Neil ruffled his hair and his son smiled, but it was a forced-looking smile. Freya, meanwhile, was giving nothing away, which seemed ominous.

Neil tried to give her a kiss but she backed off.

‘Bye,' she said, emotionlessly. ‘Thanks for lunch.'

‘It's a pleasure,' Neil replied brightly. ‘Helen and I so wanted you to share in our happiness.'

She brushed past her mother without looking at her and walked up the garden path.

‘Yeah, right,' Evie heard her mutter.

Freya threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. Her insides felt hollow. There was a black, empty space where her stomach, lungs and heart should be. Dad was having another child. Now he and Mum would never, ever get back together. Poor Mum. Poor Michael. Poor me.

She tried to picture Dad holding a baby. The thought made her want to puke. He'd expect her to be thrilled and to be a nice big sister and play with it and stuff. Some hope.

She'd nearly walked out of the restaurant. The only reason she hadn't was because of Michael. He'd have been really upset, as would Mum when she found out. Typical that Dad had picked a posh Japanese place in Richmond. Michael didn't even like Japanese food. He'd ploughed his way through pork kato curry but she could tell he was nearly gagging. She'd pushed her sushi round the plate. She hadn't even pretended to want it.

It was almost funny the way Dad waited until pudding to make his announcement. She'd seen them putting the champagne in the ice bucket so she knew it was coming. She'd pretended not to notice, though. Like she cared.

She'd guessed it was a baby because Mum said they weren't getting married. What else could it be? But he might have got a new job or something. Dad might have been moving to Serbia. If only.

Helen was nauseating, all simpering with Dad and trying to be the sweet little stepmother. ‘You must come and see the baby whenever you like,' she'd said.

Well, that would be never, then, Freya thought. But she didn't say it.

‘What are you going to call it?' Michael asked. Freya wanted to stab him in the ribs. It was gross, the way he was sucking up to them.

Dad laughed. ‘It's not “it” Michael,' he'd said, ‘it's he or she. We don't know the sex yet. As for names, have you got any ideas?'

Freya zoned out at that point, tried to listen to the conversations going on at the other tables. She heard someone say ‘Piccadilly Circus' and ‘wasabi'.

‘What do you think, Freya?' Dad said. ‘Any suggestions for names?'

She paused. ‘Wasabi.'

Michael giggled. Dad scowled. ‘Don't be silly.'

Helen looked upset. Good.

‘I think it's a nice name,' Freya said. ‘And it would suit either sex.'

After that, the conversation fizzled out. She remembered Dad asking them both about school. Helen tried to talk to her about music. ‘What do you think of Amy Winehouse?' she'd asked. ‘I quite liked that song about rehab.'

‘She's all right.' Freya wasn't falling for that one.

Helen wouldn't give up. ‘I'm going to a Will Young concert,' she'd said. ‘I hope the noise doesn't upset Junior in here.' She'd patted her stomach. Sick.

Freya was pleased with her response: ‘Will Young?' She pulled a face. ‘I doubt it. Anyway, it's just a bunch of cells, isn't it?'

Helen sniffed. She looked as if she was about to cry. Result!

Freya strained her ears. Mum was talking to Michael in the bedroom next door. She had on her soothing mummy voice. They both laughed. Michael was still young. He didn't understand what was happening. Just as well. Freya was knackered. She pulled the duvet round her, closed her eyes and felt herself drifting off to sleep.

When she woke, the house was silent. She blinked. There was a little gap between the edge of her blind and the window and she noticed that it was dark outside now. She wondered how long she'd slept. There was a wet patch on the duvet where she'd been weeping. She got up, padded over to her laptop and logged on. Please let Cal be there. She needed him so badly right now.

At least school was a bit better. She'd done the right thing, taking his advice not to look too upset when she was around Gemma and Chantelle and the rest, not to let them get to her. And she'd ditched Richie, not that there'd ever been much between them. That had probably helped.

Basically she'd kept her head down, tried to be nice to people, avoided arguments and the nasty MSNing had stopped. For now anyway. Gemma and co. weren't exactly being nice to her, but at least they were leaving her alone. That was a huge relief. But now this.

hey Cal – u there? i need to talk,
she wrote.

It didn't take him long to reply.
wot bout? im listening.

She told him about the baby, Helen's stupid expression, Dad's happiness, Michael's confusion. Mum, trying so hard to be positive.

i don't want a half brother or sister
, she said.
they're gonna expect me to love it, do stuff with it. but i hate them both.

listen
, he said,
life's shit sometimes. but u know wot? ur the best. you've got a beautiful heart. ive never known a girl like u before.

She felt warm all over, tingly. No boy had ever spoken to her like that. It was almost like he was in love with her!

Was it possible for two people to fall in love without ever having met? She tried to picture what he looked like. She imagined he was tall and quite thin, with cool clothes and messy fair hair. She'd love to know if she was right, but she didn't dare ask.

He must be a mind-reader.

will u send me a foto of u?
he said.
But don't tell anyone. i want to keep u to myself.

He was sooo romantic. She'd get Michael to take a picture on Mum's digital camera. She wanted to call Lucy to tell her. Normally they told each other everything – whom they fancied, what kind of kissers they thought they'd be. But this time she wouldn't.

It was
her
secret. If word got out, it might spoil everything. Gemma and everyone would tease her. And Mum wouldn't like that she was talking to a stranger. Lucy would start talking about sex or something, giggle about what they were going to do to each other. She wouldn't understand that this was different.

There was a knock. Mum's head appeared round the door. Freya quickly minimised.

‘May I come in?'

She looked beautiful, Freya thought. She was wearing a sparkly silver halter-neck top over loose black trousers, and high black heels that made her look much taller. She'd blow-dried her fair hair and had pretty make-up on: pinky brown lips and lots of mascara.

The silver top had a V-neck but it was quite low. Freya frowned. It was pretty gross for your mum to go out with cleavage showing. But it would be difficult to hide her boobs unless she wore a burka or something. Freya was quite glad that she didn't have boobs like that. It'd be something else to tease her about.

‘You were asleep, I didn't want to disturb you,' Mum said. ‘How do you feel?'

Freya pulled a face. ‘I'd guessed it was a baby,' she said. ‘It's sick. Where are you going anyway?'

Mum came and sat on the end of her bed. ‘Nic's party, remember? Michael's downstairs watching TV. There's lasagne in the oven. It's ready whenever you want it.'

‘Oh yes.' Freya had forgotten about the party. She didn't mind, though. She was happy talking to Cal.

‘Darling,' Mum said. ‘I know it's a big shock for us all, especially you and Michael, but it's not the baby's fault, you know. You'll grow to love it. It'll be exciting having a new brother or sister.'

‘It won't,' Freya snapped. ‘I'm going to make sure I have as little to do with it as possible.'

Mum sighed. She looked so sad. Freya left her desk and sat beside her, gave her a hug.

‘Don't look so worried,' she said. ‘I'm just in a bad mood. Dad was stupid at lunch, he was like a schoolboy. And Helen was all lovey-dovey with him. I hated it. But I expect I'll like the baby when it's born. I'm just being grumpy.'

Mum's shoulders relaxed and the worry lines on her forehead dissolved.

‘Go off and enjoy your party,' Freya said. ‘Michael and I will be fine. I'll get supper and make sure he doesn't go to bed too late.'

‘Sure you don't mind?' Mum rose. ‘I can cancel if you'd prefer?'

Freya shook her head. ‘By the way, where's the camera?'

Mum thought for a moment. ‘By my bed, I think. Why?'

‘No reason,' Freya replied.

Chapter Seventeen

Nic giggled, listening out for Alan as he came upstairs. He seemed to take an eternity. It was a bit chilly with no clothes on. She had goosebumps. She hugged her arms around her and gave them a rub.

At last he entered the room and she leaped out from behind the door. ‘Boo.'

He jumped, startled. ‘What the . . . ?'

She smiled mischievously, twirling the long, blue silk scarf in her hands in a Salome-like fashion.

He frowned. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Seducing you,' she said, moving right up close so that her breasts rubbed against his shirt, her thigh against his trousered leg.

He took a step back. ‘Don't be absurd. They'll be here in a minute.'

She bit her lip, feeling suddenly foolish and very vulnerable.

His expression softened. ‘Maybe later.'

Yeah, right. She walked quickly over to the gold-upholstered armchair in the corner of the bedroom and started putting on the black and pink underwear she'd picked out earlier. She peeped round, hoping he might be looking, but he had his back to her, choosing a fresh shirt from the cupboard.

She took a swig from the half-empty glass of white wine on top of her mahogany chest of drawers and sighed. Their lovemaking was so infrequent these days, she wondered what on earth she'd have to do to get him in the mood. When was the last time they'd had sex? She honestly couldn't remember. He always had some excuse or other.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room and slipped on the black, lacy, figure-hugging dress she'd picked up in a chi-chi vintage shop. According to the shop owner it was made in the sixties. It was short, a couple of inches above the knee, with a scoop neck and three-quarter-length lace sleeves. Nic had good legs; she knew she could carry it off.

‘Can you zip me up?' she asked without turning round. She watched his reflection coming up behind her. Her blond bob was only chin-length, so she didn't need to lift her hair up for him. She hoped he might kiss her neck, her shoulder or something. But he didn't. He looked distracted, a million miles away.

‘There you go.'

She swivelled round. ‘How do I look?'

‘Lovely,' he replied, bending down to tie his shoelace.

She finished her glass of wine and then straightened the bedspread, which was dark green, to match the green carpet and curtains. It was a queen-size bed with an elegant, ivory-coloured antique French headboard which Nic had picked up at an auction. One wall was covered in striking Cole & Son green and pale-blue paisley wallpaper, while the rest were painted off white. She'd wanted something calm and sophisticated, a bit like a hotel room.

She checked the en-suite bathroom, too. It was unlikely that anyone would go in there but you never knew. The dress felt a bit looser round the waist than the last time she'd worn it. She'd better eat something tonight or she'd start to look scraggy.

She'd hired a catering company to do the food: some meat and fish, lots of different side dishes. But her stomach turned at the thought of all those creamy salads, buttery new potatoes, sweet puddings. She just didn't seem to have an appetite these days.

Nic left the bedroom. Alan had gone downstairs. Across the landing she noticed that, unusually, he hadn't closed his study door. She decided to check for dirty cups and glasses. He usually left at least one mug of half-drunk coffee or tea lying around.

She always felt a slight frisson when she entered his study, as if she were a naughty schoolgirl going somewhere she shouldn't. He certainly never made her feel welcome there. She tiptoed in and pushed the door to, practically bumping into the ugly grey filing cabinet that was hidden behind it.

The room was terribly tidy, as always. There was a black leather sofa against the right-hand wall facing Alan's large, rectangular desk on the left. The desk was Victorian, made of walnut, with oval brass plate handles and a brown leather top. Alan had chosen it himself from an antique shop in Surrey. There was nothing on it, save a squat little orange and blue glazed cup which Dominic had made some years ago in pottery classes at school. Alan used it as a pen-holder.