Never Close Your Eyes (20 page)

All around the desk were built-in shelves with rows and rows of financial books, plus a few biographies and thrillers. Alan wasn't a big reader: he was always too busy working. But he tended to catch up when they were on holiday.

Nic noticed that his laptop was tucked away in its black holder, resting against the wall. She scanned the room for empty cups and was surprised that there were none. The clock on the wall said 8.15 p.m. The guests were invited for around eight thirty.

Something made her reach out, tentatively, to try the drawers on the desk. Normally, she knew, Alan kept them locked. He said there was important, confidential information about clients in there.

The first two drawers were, indeed, impossible to get into. But to her surprise, the third slid open. She glanced over her shoulder just to check. No Alan. Dominic was on a sleepover so he wouldn't disturb her.

She peered in the drawer. It was the biggest, deepest one. There seemed to be a pile of old magazines in there. On top was
The Economist
. She picked it up and checked the date: June 2007. There must be an article he wanted to keep.

The next one down was
The Spectator
. She picked that up too and put it on top of
The Economist
by her feet. Still curious, she pulled out the whole pile. It was difficult because it was heavy. She plonked the lot on the floor, knelt down and started to go through them quickly. There were more
Economist
s, several issues of
Time
, a
New Statesman
or two.

She reached the middle of the pile and stopped. Her head swam.
Teen Babes
, she read. She stared. There, on the cover, was a picture of a naked young girl with bunches, cupping her tiny breasts in a provocative pose. ‘Tons of teen pussy', screamed the coverline. ‘No 1 source for teen sex!'

She didn't want to but she couldn't stop herself. She opened the magazine and flicked through. It was crammed with pictures of naked girls deliberately chosen, no doubt, because they looked so young, no more than about twelve or thirteen. They had very slender bodies, hardly any breasts or pubic hair, no hips. In the background were props such as dolls, teddies and pink, girly furnishings. But there was nothing sweet or innocent about what they were doing.

Nic's heart fluttered. There must be some mistake. He wouldn't look at this stuff. The magazine must have got stuck to one of the other ones somehow and he didn't realise it was there. She picked it up. Underneath was another. Different title, same vein. And another. She riffled frantically through the whole pile until she got almost to the bottom and they were spread around her in a messy heap.

All teen sex magazines, every single one of them.

She covered her face with her hands. Who was this man she was married to? She wondered if she even knew him.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn't get away from what was in front of her. She could see girls – lots of young girls – dancing, opening their legs, inviting, pouting. A mash of flesh and lurid colours, faceless men pushing their way into garish orifices.

She imagined Alan poring over the photographs, touching, coming, even. She shuddered. It would be bad enough if they were grown women, but these were just children. It was abusive, disgusting and shameful. They weren't so very much older than Dominic.

She wanted to go but couldn't. She had to check the bottom of the pile. She turned back to the drawer. The very last thing in it wasn't a magazine but an A4-sized scrapbook, the kind she had as a child. She used to press wild flowers, stick them in and label them.

She opened the first page. It was covered in crudely cut-out pictures of smiling girls in school uniforms, the kind you see in catalogues. She turned over. More pictures. Children in underwear, little pants and vests, mostly white but some with flowers and doll motifs.

Her heart stopped. She looked more closely. Some of the pictures weren't right. Different heads were stuck on to the bodies. Heads of children – young girls – taken from photographs. She squinted. Some of the heads looked familiar. Lily, the neighbour's daughter? She was mistaken. Her imagination was running riot. Freya?

She put her hands over her mouth to stifle her cry. The word ‘monster' slipped through her brain like a spectre. Her whole body shook.

There was an innocent explanation.

She sat there for a few moments, thinking rapidly. She needed to have her wits about her. Whatever she did next, whatever path she chose, was going to be crucial. Her brain was ticking so loudly that she could almost hear it. They were just pictures. Static images. Fantasy. They had nothing to do with real life.

They were young girls. Grown men shouldn't even think about doing these things to them.

She thought she heard a noise outside, a creak. She gasped, turning round. Nothing happened. She waited, holding her breath, until she was sure there was no one there.

If Alan found her . . . it didn't bear thinking about. If Alan left her . . . Her heart started beating faster. She depended on him for her very survival.

No one must ever know. Ever. She didn't know. She'd never been in the study or opened the drawer. It was his little secret. She breathed in and out several times. She needed another drink. That would blank it out, calm her down. But she must tidy up first.

Swiftly, she gathered the magazines together and put them carefully back in the drawer, making sure the scrapbook was on the bottom and
The Economist
on the very top, just as he'd left it. She closed the drawer and glanced around her one more time to make sure that she hadn't missed anything. Then she crept out of the room, leaving the door open as she'd found it.

She heard the doorbell ring and jumped.

‘Nic!' Alan called from the bottom of the stairs.

‘I'll be down in a minute,' she replied.

Her thoughts were all over the place, darting to and fro, an undisciplined mess. One by one she tried to marshal them together and regain control. It had never happened. Everything was OK.

She realised that she hadn't put her make-up on and scurried into the bedroom. She sat down at her Venetian-style, mirrored dressing table and stared. Her eyes were bloodshot and her skin looked sallow, almost yellowy. Deep lines ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth. She hardly recognised herself.

She shook her hair and straightened her shoulders. That was better. Pull yourself together. Thank God for foundation, eye-shadow, mascara and blusher. She set to work with a feverish intensity, smoothing on here, dabbing and brushing there, like an artist at his easel.

Ten minutes later exactly, she appeared at the drawing-room door. Everything looked just so: dimmed lighting, pale-cream walls, wooden floor, a giant vase of fresh flowers on the Indian white metal console against the far wall. There were a handful of guests already but many more were expected.

She glided over to Alan's side and took his left hand. She could feel his wedding ring between her fingers, solid and comforting.

‘Sorry I'm late.' She smiled, glancing from one person to another, challenging them with her eyes to focus on her dress, her immaculate make-up and hair, anything but the turquoise braces. She was quite the poised, elegant lady of the house. ‘Has everybody got a drink?'

Chapter Eighteen

Evie felt suddenly claustrophobic.

The room had filled up rapidly and was hot, noisy and crowded. Her high, pointy black boots were uncomfortable and she wanted to sit down on one of the sofas that were pushed out of the way against the walls. But she knew that would look odd and anti-social.

She excused herself from the little group that she was in and squeezed past more guests into the kitchen next door. She was desperate to get away. They'd been talking about washing machines. She'd wanted to say that she couldn't care less about washing machines, that it was incredibly boring to be discussing them and couldn't they find something better to talk about? But she hadn't dared. Had Neil been there she might have been more outspoken and tried to steer the subject round. But she felt self-conscious enough without drawing more attention to herself.

She remembered how, when she and Neil used to go to parties together, she'd glue herself to his side. If he left her for more than a few minutes she'd be looking round, wondering where he was, missing him. It was her nature; she wasn't made to be on her own.

She'd have been amazed, back then, that she'd one day be able to come to events like this as a single person and cope as well as she was. Except that right now, she felt that she wasn't coping at all. She was miserable. She should have stayed at home with the children, as Bill had suggested.

Where were Becca and Tom? Evie was sure that Becca had said they were coming. Maybe something had cropped up and they wouldn't show at all. Evie couldn't wait all night for them. She was tempted to slip away and go home. But Nic would be upset when she found out.

There were fewer people in the kitchen and she could breathe more easily. She took in her surroundings. There was a delicious-looking array of untouched food laid out on Nic's long wooden kitchen table. Two extra tables covered in white linen tablecloths that she must have hired or borrowed from somewhere stood at either end of it, and they were laden, too.

Evie spotted a whole salmon, French bread, plates of cold meats and several different, brightly coloured salads. Her stomach rumbled. It was ages since she'd eaten. But she didn't want to look greedy and be the first to dive in.

She decided to kill time and go to the loo. She didn't need to but she could comb her hair or something. Besides, she enjoyed Nic's loos. They were all white tiles and interesting glass basins with gleaming taps that probably cost more than Evie would spend on an entire bathroom. She swivelled round, ready to leave – and collided with someone she'd never met before.

‘I'm sorry,' she muttered, flustered.

He took a step back, holding his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Whoa! You're in a hurry,' he said, amused.

At least she hadn't skewered his foot with one of her pointy boots.

Evie glanced up. A very tall man was looking down at her smiling. Her nose was just about level with his nipples. It was a disconcerting thought. Even from her disadvantaged position she could tell that he was handsome, in a conventional sort of way. He had a strong jaw, a suggestion of designer stubble, longish, swept-back, straight black hair that was streaked with grey and a wide grin.

He appeared to be on his own; his wife must be next door.

‘I'm sorry,' she repeated. ‘I was going to the bathroom.'

He made a face. ‘What a pity. I was willing you to eat something because my stomach's digesting itself. I don't want to be the first to dig in.'

He had a deep, educated voice. She giggled, relaxing. ‘I'm hungry, too. Tell you what, we can make a pact. I'll go to the bathroom quickly and when I come back, we'll grab a plate each and help ourselves at exactly the same moment. Then we won't feel so self-conscious.'

‘It's a deal,' he said, shaking her hand. ‘But only if you agree to sit down and eat with me afterwards.' He frowned. ‘That is if you're . . .'

‘On my own? Oh yes, I'm separated,' Evie blurted. Immediately, she wished that she could take the words back. She blushed, hoping that he didn't think she was being forward. She hadn't needed to give him so much information. She could simply have said that she'd enjoy a chat. But she found it so painful to admit she was separated that she'd trained herself to get it over with in company as quickly as possible. It was easier, somehow, than having to wait, on tenterhooks, for the inevitable questions, usually followed by looks of sympathy.

Her face and neck felt boiling hot. She was staring down at her boots. She wished she could run to the bathroom and pour cold water over her head.

‘So am I,' he said. ‘Separated, I mean.'

Surprised, she forgot her embarrassment and looked at him again. It hurt her neck to crane it so; he was very tall. ‘I'm sorry. It's difficult, isn't it?' she said, frowning.

He shrugged, stooping now to make it easier for her. ‘We'd been getting on so badly, in the end it was a relief. The right thing for both of us.'

There was something about him that touched her: he looked too thin and pale for someone so handsome. There were creases round his eyes and worry lines on his brow that she hadn't clocked at first glance. He's been through the mill too, she thought. She wanted to find out more about him.

‘I won't be long,' she promised. He gave her the thumbs up.

Evie tried the handle on the downstairs loo but it was locked. She hoped the person in there wouldn't be long. She leaned against the wall and waited. Nic whooshed out of the sitting room smelling of alcohol and expensive perfume and banged into her.