Never Close Your Eyes (24 page)

‘Come here,' he said, his voice softer now.

She peeped through the tears. His arms were outstretched, waiting for her. Thank God. It didn't matter what he looked at in his study, it didn't matter how much time he spent in there. She didn't care that they rarely made love or that he was often cool and distant with her – and not just physically; mentally he was a million miles away, too, but it didn't matter. He was her lifebelt. Without him she'd drown.

She buried herself in his bare chest, in the familiar cavity between his ribs. He kissed the top of her head lightly and patted her arm.

‘You can do it,' he said, starting to get up. ‘You're a clever girl.'

She knew she could. She must. She just wouldn't have the first drink tonight, or tomorrow. It couldn't be that difficult.

‘You're going to see some changes, I promise,' she mumbled, the drying tears making her cheeks itch. ‘Just you wait and see.'

Chapter Twenty-One

‘We dragged mattresses into the loft and made a den and Max's mum let us sleep up there. It was wicked.'

Dominic was twitching with excitement. It made Nic smile. She'd been taken aback when she picked him up; he was white-faced and dishevelled, with dark circles under his eyes. He'd clearly hardly slept and he'd be exhausted and grumpy later. But he'd had a great time, which was all that mattered.

‘It's roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for supper,' she told him, steering into the supermarket car park. She shouldn't be driving. She was probably over the limit still. ‘I just have to pick up a few things.'

Like, well, everything. She hadn't planned to make a roast. She didn't usually. But today she was going to be the perfect wife and mother. Exemplary. If only her brain weren't filled with sludge. The signals couldn't make it through the pathways properly. Every movement, every thought, required extra effort. All she really wanted was to lay her head on the pillow and sleep.

‘That wasn't just a few things, it was a huge shop,' Dominic complained.

‘Well, I bought lots of treats.' She piled the bags in the boot.

Her hands trembled as she peeled the potatoes and chopped the broccoli. She must be careful; she could do herself an injury. When it was all prepared, she unloaded the dishwasher: the last of the party mess. She mopped the floor and then started on the kitchen cupboards. She hadn't cleaned them for – who knew how long?

Alan strolled in and started to make himself a cup of tea. There were tins and jars and packets everywhere. He didn't seem to notice. It could be her daily routine.

‘Leave it to me,' she said brightly, putting a tea bag in his cup. ‘You go and read the papers. I'm having a spring clean.'

Dominic had homework. ‘I'll do it later,' he grumbled. He was getting grouchier by the minute.

She pulled out two kitchen chairs. ‘Come on, I'll help.'

He looked at her suspiciously. ‘You're in a good mood.'

‘I'm always in a good mood,' she lied.

She took another headache tablet. Her third of the day. It was still only 4 p.m. She'd work on her book,
The Girl from Niger
, tonight after Dominic went to bed. That would keep her busy, away from the wine.

‘Dominic, take Dizzy round the block for me, will you?' she called upstairs. He'd finished his essay about his favourite object in the house at last. He'd chosen the antique French clock on the console in the sitting room. It was her idea because he couldn't think of anything. It had been like pulling teeth but she hadn't snapped at him. Well, only once.

No answer. She called louder.

‘I'm busy,' he replied.

The poor dog was desperate, whining; she hadn't been for a walk all day.

‘C'mon, Diz,' Nic said, pulling on her grey tweed coat and tying the belt.

She wandered, like a lost soul, round the green while Dizzy raced ahead, stopping every now and then to sniff at something. It was getting dark now, a chilly October evening. The place was almost deserted, which was just as well. Nic didn't want to see anyone she knew; she was in no mood for chatting. She felt a bit vulnerable, though, a lone woman and her little dog. She doubted Dizzy would be much protection. She turned around and started to scurry home, dragging Dizzy beind her.

‘Come on,' she urged. ‘I'm cold.' As if Dizzy cared.

The beef was slightly overdone and chewy, and Dominic was too tired to eat, really. But he enjoyed the roast potatoes. Alan was quiet for most of the meal. He helped himself to a glass of red wine from the open bottle beside the fridge. Usually Nic would have one beside her already and would sip from the same glass for the rest of the evening. She hoped for a smile, some acknowledgement, but if he noticed that she was drinking only water he didn't say.

He got up and gave his wife a peck on the cheek. ‘D'you mind if I leave the clearing up to you and Dominic? I've got work to finish off.'

‘Of course not,' she said. Perfect little housewife. Her shoulders drooped.

She and Dominic carried the plates to the dishwasher. Her eye fell on the bottle of red wine by the fridge. There must be a couple of glasses left in there at least but she wouldn't have any. Oh no. Not when she'd lasted this long.

‘Go and run your bath,' she told Dominic. ‘I want you in bed by eight.'

He started to protest but thought better of it; he was knackered.

‘I'll be up in a minute,' she promised.

She tiptoed past Alan's study on the way down. She'd make a cup of tea then settle down to some writing. Who was she kidding? She was drained, good for nothing. She'd make a cup of tea and go to bed.

She tapped on Alan's door. She hadn't meant to. It just sort of happened. There was a pause. Was he rustling something, putting his magazines away? She shivered. She was imagining it.

‘Come in.'

He was at his laptop as usual. He smiled, his eyes still on the screen. Reassured, she took a step forward.

He clicked something and swivelled round to face her.

‘I thought I'd go to bed and read,' she said.

‘Good idea.'

‘Alan?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry about last night, I really am. Will you come and join me soon?' She wanted a cuddle, to be held, squeezed tight. She could put up with anything if he'd do that. ‘You must be tired, too,' she added.

‘When I've finished this.' He turned back to the screen.

Couldn't he hear the need in her voice? Was he totally indifferent? He'd loved her once, definitely. Maybe he still loved her. Well, he had a funny way of showing it.

She walked out, closing the door behind her, went into the kitchen and poured herself a large glass from the bottle of red wine. And another. She'd eaten little of the roast and it went straight to her head, giving her a delicious buzz.

She popped upstairs to check that Dominic's light was out. Good. The study door was still closed. Now she could get down to drinking in earnest. She went into the TV room, flicked through the channels and chose an old film of
Pride and Prejudice
. She'd wanted to see it at the cinema but she couldn't concentrate now. She switched to UKTV Gold.
Fawlty Towers
repeats. They seemed to be speaking a foreign language. But the canned laughter was good, like being at a party.

Sod sobriety. If she drank herself into her grave he wouldn't notice.

Those pictures, those young girls. Drink would obliterate them.

She chinked her glass against the screen. ‘Cheers.'

Freya flinched. This didn't sound good. He wasn't going to say he had another girlfriend, was he?

It was 11 p.m. She had school tomorrow. They'd been talking for hours. Why was he doing this now?

Her fingers hovered on the keyboard.
wot?

im not who you think i am,
she read.

She stared. Took a moment or two to compose herself.
wot do u mean?
She was confused. Nothing made sense.

Her head reeled. The room was spinning. She closed her eyes for a moment. He was joking, having a laugh. She opened her eyes again.

It didn't sound like a joke. She was shaking.
how old?
she typed. She didn't want to know. Eighteen? Twenty-five?

But there was no time. She gasped, pushed back her chair and ran to the bed, blinded by tears. She threw herself down on the duvet, scrunched the pillow in her fists and sank her teeth into her hand. Cal, her beautiful Cal. Forty-eight? How was she supposed to believe that?

She stopped crying. Maybe this was some kind of test. He wanted to see if she really loved him. Well she'd prove it to him. Her breathing was shallow and jerky. She walked slowly back to the computer and sat down again.

She was frightened, but she needed to sort this out.
bak,
she typed.

Fuck. The walls of her bedroom were swaying, about to cave in on her. She didn't want to look but she couldn't help it. She was drawn to the screen like an insect to the light.

She swallowed. She was nothing to him. She was so young, stupid. She didn't know anything. Her fingers were jelly.
r u a pedo?

Well that was something.
so ur married?

She paused. A moment ago they were boyfriend and girlfriend. A moment ago she loved him. She'd told him everything, all her secrets. He was her only reason for living.

He was an old man, someone's dad.

She wanted to scream, but that would wake her mum and Michael. Trembling, she managed to type:
FUCK OFF I NEVER WANT
2 C U AGAIN
.

Life really was shit.

She couldn't think straight. She groped her way to the bathroom, took the bottle of paracetamol out of the cabinet. There must have been about ten in there. She poured a glass of water and, choking, tipped the pills, three or four at a time, down her throat. If she couldn't have Cal, there was no point.

She stumbled back to her room, lay down on her bed and waited. The ceiling was blurring up. Her eyelids were so heavy; her body was made of earth. How long would it take to die? She thought of the new baby, her stepbrother or sister. She'd never see it. It would never get to know her. Bloody baby. She didn't care. Dad would be sorry. She saw Chantelle smirking. Ha! There'd be an enquiry. It would all come out. Maybe she'd go to prison. Excellent.

Her mother's face formed in front of her, a myriad dots of light coming together like so many millions of pixels. Her eyes were wide, her mouth frozen in an uncomprehending O.

Freya gasped. ‘I'm sorry, Mum. I really am. I love you.'

She tried to get up but couldn't. She called out, but her voice was a kitten's mew. Fear seeped through her. Maybe she didn't want to die after all. She'd miss Mum. Michael, too. It was awfully final.

What have I done?

Nic thought she heard a noise upstairs. Alan leaving his study? She turned the volume down and staggered to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Is that you?'

‘Nic?' he called down. ‘I thought you were asleep?'

‘In a minute,' she managed to say. ‘I'm watching the end of a film.'

‘OK. ‘Night.'

She finished the bottle beside the sofa and zapped off the TV. Then she tiptoed into the front garden where the bins were and shoved the bottle right to the very bottom, underneath the other rubbish. Well done, Nic. Pat on the back. Alan will never know.

She stopped for a moment at the mirror in the hall and stared. The blurred reflection of an ugly, drunk woman stared back. She opened her mouth, parted her lips in a humourless grin: her teeth, behind the braces, were stained blood red. Is this what she'd become?

She hated herself, intensely, completely. She was a monster. She didn't deserve to live.

She'd think about it in the morning, do something in the morning. All she wanted now was sleep, escape, freedom.

Non-being. Nothingness.

Chapter Twenty-Two