Never Close Your Eyes (6 page)

In some respects it was easier when she was away. At least then she had only herself to think of. But that was an awful thing to feel. She spent three or four months of the year abroad and missed the children so much. If Tom pitched in and helped as he should the mornings would go more smoothly.

She checked her watch: 7.40 a.m. The traffic didn't seem too bad – so far. She was going to be all right but she might have to run when she got to Heathrow. Mind you, she was used to cutting it fine. She settled back in the leather seat. There was no point stressing about it now, it was out of her hands. She'd have plenty of time on the plane to gather her thoughts and study the papers she'd brought with her.

Thank God she was flying with British Airways. She felt safe with them. Well, safer. That flying course she'd been on hadn't exactly conquered her phobia. She was bloody terrified. They said it was all to do with her fear of letting go, of losing control. It was true she was a control freak, that's why she'd got where she was. Knowing it didn't make flying any easier, though.

She unzipped her black leather briefcase, checked all the information was there: the mission statement for PSR Pharmaceuticals Inc., the company's annual report, investments to date, a biography of the chairman and so forth. In truth, she hadn't wanted to take on any new clients right now, her portfolio was big enough already. But it would have been difficult to turn down.

Her BlackBerry pinged. Email from James. ‘Don't worry, Mummy, review all done. Love you xxx'.

Dear James.

‘Well done, darling, have a good day,' she emailed back. ‘See you Tuesday. Give A a big kiss.' There, now she felt better.

She pulled out her mini iPod and put on her relaxation album:
Balance Your Life: Ten Easy Steps to Emotional Health
. The woman's soothing tones filtered through Becca's brain.

‘Now, close your eyes. Breathe in gently through the nostrils, breathe out gently through your nostrils,' the woman said. ‘Become aware of how the cool air enters the nostrils and how the air feels a little bit warmer when you exhale. Find your own rhythm. After doing this for a little while, breathe in gently and hold your breath for a few seconds . . . Now breathe out with a sigh like this – herrrr. And again. Herrrr. Repeat this exercise fifteen times.'

Becca breathed in and out fifteen times as instructed.

‘Now,' the soothing voice continued, ‘concentrate on the noises inside and outside this room. Just accept them for what they are, let them pass by like clouds . . .'

Becca could hear the purr of the car's engine and a motorbike overtaking. She felt drowsy. She'd gone to bed later than intended last night.

‘Relax all the muscles in your face, your eyebrows, your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth, your tongue, your whole face. Let it go loose and limp, loose and limp.'

Her face felt liquid, muscle-free.

‘Your whole face is feeling simply relaxed,' the woman went on. ‘And remember, on every out-breath you're feeling a little bit more relaxed than before. Now relax all the muscles in your back, down to your buttocks. Relax. Now let this feeling of relaxation move to your shoulders. Let both your shoulders drop down. Loose and limp, loose and limp.'

‘We're here, miss.'

Becca's eyes sprang open. For a moment she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered. She must have nodded off. She sat up quickly and straightened her jacket. There was a wet patch on the lapel. Oh God, she'd been dribbling.

The taxi driver opened Becca's door and pulled her wheelie suitcase from the boot. He produced a receipt from his pocket which she signed hurriedly. Then she grabbed the suitcase and her briefcase and ran. She had no idea what she looked like. Her hair was probably sticking up all over the place but there was no time to muck about.

She plonked herself down in the aircraft with just a few moments to spare and breathed a sigh of relief. She fastened her seatbelt and waited for lift-off. There was a smell of cooking and she realised that she was hungry. On a good day she'd get to the airport a little early and have her favourite Eggs Benedict for breakfast in the plush Concord Room at Terminal 5. But this morning there'd been no chance.

She was pleased to be tucked away in a window seat out of sight. She pulled out her BlackBerry furtively, ignoring the announcement about turning off all electronic equipment, and switched on. There were the usual 149 emails but nothing urgent. She glanced quickly down the list at the sender and subject and started deleting junk messages. This would save her a few minutes when she arrived at her hotel, the Mandarin Oriental in San Francisco.

She continued scanning down the email list and was pleased to find one from Nic. It had been sent at 1.30 a.m. She must have typed it after she got home last night. Blimey, she stayed up late.

The subject was ‘Howdy Doody!' Becca opened up the text. ‘Good luck, babe, sock it to 'em! See you very soon. Nic x'.

Becca smiled and wrote back: ‘I have two books with me, something edifying about the spread of Liberalism in Europe and another called
The Smart Girl's Guide to Looking Good and Feeling Great
. I know which I'll read first! Becks x'.

The plane started to taxi slowly towards the runway and the air steward started the safety routine. Becca closed her eyes and gripped the armrests. How many times had she seen this? She couldn't bear to watch it again, it just made her more nervous.

She tried to imagine that she was at home, curled up on the sofa with the children watching a DVD. Taking off and landing were the worst. It helped if she tried not to hear the engine sounds but focused on something else entirely.

She cast her mind back to the writing group last night. It had been some meeting. Pamela had behaved even more badly than usual and Carol was shocking. But Russell was as sweet and incisive as ever. He was such a nice man. She really valued his comments.

She felt annoyed with herself for having made so little progress in the last few months. Evie was deadly serious about her novel, but she, Becca, had only been playing at it really. But it was all mapped out. She just needed to get down to it. A series of six kids' mysteries, a touch of the Enid Blytons, a sort of modern-day Famous Five. She was sure it would work.

The bit she enjoyed most was describing the house in Devon where the children were holidaying, with its endless rooms and sprawling orchards surrounded by fields. So different from her own, poky childhood home.

She shivered. Maybe she'd find some time to write some more on this trip. She could become a famous author and get off the hamster wheel. It wasn't impossible. J. K. Rowling had done it.

J. K. had been on her own when she'd started – a single mum. Becca thought of Tom. She hadn't mentioned her dream, her fantasy of giving up work, to him. He'd just laugh and say that she couldn't write for toffee. He, being a sports journalist, was the writer in the family. Her job was to make money and keep him in the lifestyle to which he was accustomed. She pictured him in that purple and gold kimono. She wished to God she'd never given it to him.

She opened her eyes and was just about to switch off her BlackBerry when another email caught her attention. It was from Facebook.

Gary Laybourn added you as a friend on Facebook. We need to confirm that you know Gary in order for you to be friends on Facebook.

To confirm this friend request, follow the link below:

Thanks,

The Facebook Team

Becca read the message again to be sure. Her breath started to come in short gasps. Gary Laybourn? From primary school? It couldn't be. But she didn't know anyone else with that name. It must be – but how had he found her? More importantly, how the hell had he recognised her?

She smoothed her nearly-black hair and tucked it behind her ears – an involuntary movement. She should never have joined Facebook. She was a fool. She should have trusted her instincts. But everyone at work had been talking about it. It would have seemed odd if she hadn't signed up. Besides, she looked totally different now.

Not as different as she thought.

She licked her lips and glanced around, half expecting a lynch mob to appear. No one had moved from their chairs; everything looked perfectly normal. The blood was pounding in her temples. She felt as if she was going to be sick.

Gary Laybourn. What did he want? To sell her story to the
News of the World
? She'd liked him once. He'd been nice to her. They were sort of going out, in a silly, twelve-year-old way, until . . . well.

It was so long ago, in another life. She'd shoved all those memories in a box, buried it and thrown away the key.

She switched off the BlackBerry quickly, took a deep breath, pulled
The Smart Girl's Guide to Looking Good and Feeling Great
out of her handbag, but she couldn't concentrate. It was impossible. As soon as the plane reached ten thousand feet she grabbed her iPod. She needed the relaxation CD again. She'd known something like this would happen one day. It was bound to. She wasn't prepared, though. How could you be?

She closed her eyes and tried to clear her brain, calm herself down. She'd bin the email and never hear from him again. She was shivering, she felt so cold. She'd liked him so much. He'd written to her a couple of times but she hadn't written back. She tried to imagine what he was doing now. Was he married? Did he have children? She'd like to know – but could she trust him?

‘Good morning, madam, have you decided what you'd like for breakfast?' The male air steward's smile seemed to have been pinned on his face and abandoned there.

Becca shook her head.

He frowned. ‘Do you need any assistance?' She must have gone white.

‘No thanks.' She tried to smile. ‘I'm not hungry.'

She plugged in her earphones again. ‘Loose and limp, loose and limp,' the woman on the CD said. But Becca couldn't concentrate, the soothing tones were just an irritation, like a wasp in her ear. The flight would seem interminable. She flicked the iPod off. She was going to have to deal with this on her own.

When they finally arrived, she switched her BlackBerry back on, logged on to Facebook and reread the message. Her finger hovered over the delete key but she couldn't press it.

Her palms felt sweaty. She wiped them on her skirt and hit ‘reply': ‘Rebecca Goodall has accepted your invitation to become friends.'

There was no going back now.

Chapter Six

Nic poked a finger in her mouth and fished out a small piece of plastic. Pah. It had broken off the end of the Biro she'd been chewing. She made a face and dropped it in the bin beside the desk.

She rubbed her eyes. So, which potty should she ‘highly recommend'? Her panel of testers – three mums from different parts of the country – seemed to like the one that made flushing sounds. It was also splash-proof, musical and there was a pull-out, portable potty underneath. It really was all-singing, all-dancing.

And to think that Dominic hadn't ever even used a potty. Hadn't liked them. Preferred to go on the big loo straightaway. Better keep that to herself.

She started to tap on the computer.
Mums
had already commissioned her next piece after this one: kiddies' toothpaste. She was grateful for the work, really she was. She remembered being obsessed with all this sort of thing when Dominic was small. She could talk for hours to other mothers about cloth versus disposable nappies, teething gels, baby massage and suchlike. It had seemed fascinating back then.

She should have moved on but she hadn't the energy to come up with original ideas, to get on the phone to commissioning editors and introduce herself, sell herself. She pushed back her chair, stood up and stretched. Dominic would be home before long. Maybe she should forget the potties feature and do a bit of her novel.

She scratched her head. She needed coffee first. She wandered downstairs to the kitchen. It was a big, square room at the back of the house with a large rectangular oak table at one end and a squishy cream sofa against one wall. The table was almost completely surrounded by glass walls and looked out over a neat, symmetrical garden. At the other end of the kitchen were the sink, cooker, dishwasher and pale oak worktops. The whole room was painted white and there were various carefully selected modern paintings on display. Nic had picked them up at affordable art fairs. She loved collecting paintings.

She'd had the kitchen designed by a first-class architect about three years ago. She'd wanted a feeling of space, light and, above all, harmony. She couldn't bear clutter. She'd been delighted with the result at the time but somehow, now, the room seemed to have lost its lustre. It didn't give her so much pleasure any more.