Never Close Your Eyes (7 page)

Her eyes fell on the breakfast plates still on the table. She quickly bundled them into the sink. Then she filled the stainless-steel kettle and put two big spoonfuls of dark-brown coffee into a small cafetière. She breathed in and the smell filled her lungs. She really should cut down on caffeine. There again, there were more important things to worry about.

She glimpsed the open bottle of red wine in the corner beside the sink, next to the jars of rice and pasta, and looked away quickly. She pulled a bottle of Chardonnay from the wine rack below and put it in the American-style stainless-steel fridge. Then she took out a litre of milk and poured some in her favourite pink flowery mug along with the coffee.

Upstairs again she sat down, closed the potties document and opened up her book. Reading the title, as she had done so often before, still gave her a tickle of excitement:

She checked the word count: 30,375 words. Getting on for a third of the way through. Once she reached the 50,000-word mark she'd feel that she was really making progress.

She scrolled down to Chapter Ten and started to reread. ‘A wave of shock surged through Beattie's body. She stared again at the man over the top of her newspaper. It couldn't be. It was! He was the man she'd seen hanging around outside her hotel that day. And again in the bar last night. But who was he?'

Nic felt a tingle of pleasure. The action was hotting up. She continued to read until she got to the bit where she'd left off the day before yesterday. She began to type:

‘Beattie finished her drink quickly and paid the bill. She decided to call on Adamou on her way home to see what he thought.'

Nic loved writing about Beattie, a beautiful, mixed-race investigative journalist with long black hair that she smothered in oil so that it went ringletty. Beattie was everything that Nic would like to be: brave, adventurous, brimming with self-confidence.

She'd sent Beattie to Niger to investigate the gruesome discovery of a child's body – a girl – in the River Severn, with her liver and kidneys removed. Police reckoned that the girl might have been killed for her body parts. A number of other children had gone missing from the area where the girl came from and rumours abounded locally that the parts were being sold to rich westerners for transplantation.

In Niamey, Niger's capital, Beattie had become friendly with Adamou, a handsome young artist she'd met in a bar who seemed keen to help her with her investigations. They'd soon started a steamy affair.

Nic thought for a moment.

‘He came to the door in his shorts and sandals – and nothing else. When he saw that it was Beattie, he grinned with delight.

‘“Come in, beautiful,” he said, pulling Beattie by the arm into the dark interior. “I've been thinking about you.”'

The doorbell rang. Bugger. Nic quickly closed the document and raced downstairs two at a time. ‘Coming,' she shouted.

She could hear Dominic pushing against the door. Why did he do that? He was so impatient. She pulled the door open and he fell forwards, practically knocking her over as he barged into the hallway.

‘Careful,' Nic scolded. She smiled at Evie, standing behind Dominic. Evie was taller than Nic, but only by a couple of inches, and rounder. She wasn't fat, far from it, but she did have this large bust that she tried – and usually failed – to disguise.

Today she was wearing a long-sleeved, pale-pink T-shirt that suited her pretty, peaches-and-cream complexion. There was a good inch of cleavage peeping out of the V-neck. You couldn't avoid it. She grinned back, revealing the endearing gap between her two front teeth.

‘Thanks for giving him a lift,' Nic said. ‘Coffee?'

Evie shook her head. ‘I promised I'd get new school shoes for Freya. Her old ones are wrecked.'

Nic glanced over Evie's shoulder and caught sight of Freya in the passenger seat of the battered silver Renault Espace. Michael was in the back. Freya turned and gave a half-smile.

‘Michael can stay here,' Nic said brightly. ‘I'll give him tea. I imagine shoe shopping isn't his idea of a good time?'

‘Too right.' Evie frowned. ‘But you're always—'

Nic raised a hand. ‘Dom will be delighted and it's no trouble, honest. Maybe you can stay for a glass of wine later?'

Evie smiled. ‘That's really kind . . .'

‘Settled.' Nic grinned. Michael was already getting out of the car.

‘Am I staying?' he asked hopefully. He must have clocked something in the women's body language. ‘Please, Mum?'

‘All right.' Evie ruffled his hair. ‘You're saved from the shoe torture – this time.'

‘Yesssss!' Michael punched the air.

Nic hummed as she spread out the oven chips on a baking tray and took the peas and fishfingers out of the freezer. It was hardly cordon bleu but at least the boys would eat it. She wondered what to do for Alan and opened the fridge. There were prawns and lots of vegetables. She could do a curry. She liked cooking curries. There again, he'd probably have had a big lunch at work and there was no point cooking curry just for her. She pulled a ready-made moussaka out of the freezer. It'd do. She'd just have a bit of salad.

She checked the kitchen clock: 5.50 p.m. Ten minutes to go. She tipped some peanuts into a bowl and opened a packet of port and stilton crisps. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. She picked three of her favourite glasses from the cupboard – the green and silver party ones that she'd found in a catalogue – and then she laid the table.

The boys were very quiet upstairs, probably on the PlayStation. The clock hands slid to the 6 and 12. Nic breathed in and out slowly, padded to the fridge and removed the bottle of Chardonnay. Her fingers trembled slightly as she uncorked it and poured herself exactly half a glass.

The wine was pale gold, thick, almost oily-looking. She took a sip and sighed. Her body seemed to melt into the liquid. She took another sip and closed her eyes.

The oven pinged. Her eyelids fluttered open. ‘Boys!' she called. ‘Supper.'

They trooped into the kitchen and sat, silently gobbling down the food that she'd put in front of them. She watched with amusement while Dominic, his dark head bent over the plate in concentration, separated his food into three parts: peas, fishfingers and chips. Then he ate the peas and fishfingers, leaving the chips, his favourite, till last. He'd always done that, ever since he was old enough to hold a spoon and fork.

Evie's Michael was the opposite, though. He ate the chips first, dipping them again and again into the tomato ketchup, his mouth soon smeared red, making smacking noises with his lips. Then he ate the fishfingers and finally the vegetables – his least favourite. He was rather quiet and reserved when he didn't know people but Nic was glad that he felt at home here.

‘Eat up your peas then you can have pudding,' she said firmly.

Gradually the volume in the kitchen started to increase. Soon, it was almost deafening. The two boys were laughing and shoving each other. Dominic almost fell off his chair.

‘Watch it,' Nic warned. She recognised the signs. They'd had their fuel boost, now they were hopping with energy. She unlocked the glass door and slid it open.

‘Go,' she laughed. ‘Go outside and run a few laps round the garden.'

They burst out like whippets from the traps.

‘Race you to the tree at the end,' Dominic screamed.

‘My shoelace has come undone,' Michael wailed. But Dominic had already set off. Michael tore off the shoe in frustration, threw it across the grass and raced, with one shoe on, one shoe off, after his friend.

Nic turned back inside and slid the door closed again. Her wine glass was sitting on the worktop near the sink. It was nearly empty now. She drained the last drop. She was annoyed. Where was Evie? She started to clear the table. She could hear the boys shouting outside. She took a handful of peanuts, opened and closed the dishwasher several times finding more things to put in.

At last the doorbell rang and she raced down the hall. ‘Did you get the shoes?' she asked, smiling.

Freya, standing behind Evie, held up a plastic bag. ‘Ta da.'

Evie grimaced. ‘We must have gone to about ten shoe shops and tried on practically every single pair.' She looked meaningfully at Nic. ‘In the end we reached a compromise.'

Freya shrugged her shoulders and grinned. She would be such a pretty girl, Nic thought, if only she didn't dress so oddly.

Nic took the plastic bag. ‘Come inside and show me,' she said to the girl. ‘Evie, I should think you need a nice glass of wine after that.'

She poured Evie a glass and another one for herself. Evie didn't seem to notice that the bottle was already open. The women sat round the kitchen table and Freya produced a pair of big, black, very masculine-looking Dr Martens.

‘They're great,' Nic lied. She glanced nervously at Evie. ‘Very trendy.'

Evie smiled back weakly.

Freya nodded without making eye contact. This, Evie had already explained to Nic, was all part and parcel of being an emo – short for emotive or emotional – a cool young subset of the Goths, apparently. Generally, emos worked hard at looking – and being – miserable, introspective and misunderstood.

Freya had dyed black hair and wore heaps of mascara. Today she was in her school uniform but at weekends she favoured skinny jeans and tight, printed, band T-shirts. She tended to slouch so that her slender body resembled a question mark. Despite attempting to look as unappealing as possible, however, there was a sweetness about her that she couldn't disguise, and a vulnerability. She had big blue eyes, a peaky little chin and a full mouth. In a few years, Nic thought, she'd be a beauty.

Nic felt that Evie was remarkably sanguine about the emo business. Evie's view was that it was just a phase and Freya would come out the other end. She'd been through a lot with her dad leaving home and needed to express herself.

The boys opened the glass door and burst into the kitchen. ‘We're going up to watch telly,' Dominic explained, racing past.

‘Take your shoes off first,' Nic called after them.

Finally, Evie took another sip of wine and rose. ‘I must go. Freya's got homework for tomorrow.'

‘But we haven't finished the bottle yet,' Nic protested. ‘You can always leave the car here and pick it up in the morning.'

Evie was about to reply when Nic's husband, Alan, appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was a small, slightly awkward-looking man with short, straight hair that was greying at the sides and combed neatly off his face with a side parting. He was wearing a navy-blue raincoat over his dark suit, which looked just a little too big for him. He hovered uncomfortably for a second or two.

‘Darling!' Nic smiled, beckoning him over. ‘We were setting the world to rights. Glass of wine?'

He walked over to Nic and pecked her on the cheek. ‘No thanks. Good to see you, Evie.' He took off his raincoat, laid it on a chair and started loosening his tie.

‘And you're . . . ?' He looked at Freya.

‘My daughter, Freya,' Evie explained quickly.

Nic watched him carefully. His left eye flickered.

‘Of course. How do you do, Freya.' He held out his hand, which she took. ‘I didn't recognise you.'

She didn't meet his gaze.

‘The last time we met you were just a little girl with bunches.'

At that she gave a half-smile.

He turned back to Nic. ‘I've got a bit of work to do.' He patted her on the shoulder.

Nic glanced at Evie and took a big glug of wine, draining the glass. ‘Work, work, work, it's all he does.' She poured herself more wine.

Alan was already on his way out of the door. ‘Bye, Evie. Bye, Freya.'

‘He slaves away in that study of his till all hours,' Nic went on. ‘I honestly don't think he'd notice if I pranced around in nothing but a pair of fishnet stockings.'

‘You should try to go away together for a weekend or something,' Evie suggested. ‘It sounds like you need it.'

Nic didn't seem to hear.

‘I almost wish he had some secret lover hidden up there,' she said, taking another sip of wine. ‘At least then I could understand why he doesn't want to be with me.'

Chapter Seven

Neil's Alfa Romeo was outside the house when Evie and the children returned. She shivered. She hated that car: his tart cart. He'd bought it soon after he'd walked out, leaving her with the ancient Renault Espace. She'd like to run a fifty-pence piece all along that horrible, sleek, shiny black side.