Close My Eyes (19 page)

Mummy said she didn’t mean things like kicking and fighting (or yelling ‘Stranger Danger’ if it was a grown-up Bad Person, though that was good too) and she didn’t
mean telling the teacher either. At first I didn’t understand because I was so little. But then I realized she meant clever fighting, like when someone hurts you, you have to hurt them
worse.

Mummy said that just because you are smaller than the people you are fighting against it doesn’t mean you can’t get them back. She said doing sneaky fighting against Ginger Tall
and Broken Tooth was a good place to start and that I should think about a special way to pay them back.

So I did.

Before we set off for Oxford I call the Institute and tell Sami I’ve got a terrible migraine and can’t teach this afternoon. I feel guilty as I speak to her, but
once I’m off the phone Lorcan distracts me with questions about which route to take. We spend the first part of the journey simply negotiating our way out of London, but once we’re on
the motorway I sit back and steal a look at him.

He exudes a quiet determination that I really like. Whereas Art is dynamic and forceful, all energy and purpose, Lorcan’s manner is far more relaxed. He’s managed to make haring off
to Oxford to snoop round a hospital sound like the most normal thing in the world, a day trip to the countryside. And yet, in his own way, he’s just as focused as Art.

‘So tell me . . .’ I say. ‘You hardly know me, why are you helping me like this?’

Lorcan glances around. His eyes hold mine. ‘I understand this, Gen. When Elaine and I split up she was mad as hell, threatened to stop me seeing Cal. We fought over access, everything. It
wasn’t sorted out when I had to go back to Ireland for the show. It ate away at me. I honestly didn’t know what she would do: take Cal out of the country? Tell lies about me to the
police? Tell lies about me to my son? He was only tiny at the time – he wouldn’t even have remembered me. I nearly went mad not knowing if I’d ever see him again, whether we would
sort it out or whether she’d find a way of keeping him from me. Until you know for sure, one way or the other, you can’t stop yourself going over and over it. Maybe this will happen . .
. maybe something else . . . maybe whatever . . . So – I understand – you
have
to know.’

I nod, slowly.
It’s the hope that kills
. Art has never really understood that. Thinking this reminds me of Art himself.

‘What am I going to say to Art later? You know, if I’m not home?’

Lorcan pauses. ‘Maybe you won’t need to say anything. What time does he usually get in?’

‘Eight or nine-ish,’ I say.

‘The guy’s a machine.’ Lorcan mutters, rolling his eyes.

There’s a moment when neither of us speak. Something shifts between us, something to do with whatever is behind Lorcan’s offer of help. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but I
know Lorcan’s history with Art is at the root of it.

‘You resent Art firing you from Loxley Benson, don’t you?’

Lorcan’s gaze is part-embarrassed, part-defiant. ‘It’s not that simple.’

Another silence stretches out between us. I want to ask him what he means, but something tells me he will change the subject if I do

I settle back in my seat. I can send Art a text later, telling him I’m meeting a friend in town this evening. The chances are high I’ll be back before he gets in from work
anyway.

I gaze out of the window at the blur of trees speeding past. I know that I should feel guilty, that trying to track down Dr Rodriguez means I don’t really trust Art . . . that, whichever
way you look at it, lying to the Institute and planning on lying to Art about it is wrong. But I don’t feel guilty any longer.

It’s not just because of all the doubts and suspicions crowding my head. There’s also a part of me I don’t want to acknowledge that really likes the idea of spending time with
Lorcan. It’s the way his presence makes me feel anything’s possible. Freeing me up. Not weighing me down. I even feel the once-familiar desire to write, itching under my skin. Maybe
that, too, will be possible when I know the truth.

Once we reach Oxford, it’s easy to find the Fair Angel maternity hospital. The building – part Victorian gothic, part New Age glass and brick – looks exactly as I remember it.
The sight of the shiny brass handle on the front door sends a shiver through me.

In this place my daughter died.

Or was stolen from me.

It’s not as cold as it was earlier – despite the continued snow warnings – but I shiver again. Lorcan puts his hand on the small of my back. It feels warm and strong, his
fingers pressing into me. Part of me wants to move away – the touch is too intimate. But I like it. The comfort of it. The strength it gives me.

I glance sideways at him.

‘You ready to do this?’ he says. ‘You know what to say?’

I nod. Lorcan reaches past me and presses the buzzer. I catch a whiff of his smell – a mix of wood-shavings and soap and something sharp and lemony.

A prim, female voice comes through the intercom. ‘May I help you?’

I give the false name Lorcan and I agreed on earlier. ‘I have an appointment to see Dr Rodriguez.’

‘I don’t . . . wait a minute . . .’

Lorcan and I exchange a look. A second later, the prim voice is back.

‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, Dr Rodriguez no longer works here.’

‘But I’ve come all the way from London.’ I let my voice fill with emotion. ‘Please . . . I
have
to speak to someone.’

There’s a short pause then the door buzzes.

Lorcan grins as he steps back to let me through. All this is his idea, the plan we worked out as we drove here in his smart black Audi. He still seems so relaxed and confident, a million miles
from how I’m feeling. I’m deeply grateful. There’s no way I could handle this visit alone or with someone less assured.

Inside it’s hard to get my bearings for a second or two. Everything’s been redecorated and remodelled. The reception desk is now to the left of the entrance and manned by a
fifty-something woman in designer glasses, whom I don’t recognize. Her gaze shifts from me to Lorcan. He stares back at her, a beat more than is necessary.

I gulp as the woman turns to me. ‘What did you say your name was?’

I give my false name again. We’ve decided to keep everything other than my name the same as in real life. Lorcan insists that lies work best when they are as close to the truth as
possible.

‘I was a patient here eight years ago,’ I say. ‘Under Dr Rodriguez. I made an appointment to see him here today.’

The woman looks up from her appointments book, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘I don’t understand. Dr Rodriguez left here ages ago, before I started. I don’t know who gave you
this appointment. There must have been some misunderstanding.’

‘Oh.’ My heart’s pounding so loudly I think she will hear it. There’s no need to fake the vulnerability I’m supposed to display here. Tears prick at my eyes.
‘But we’ve driven all the way from London.’ I turn away, fishing for a tissue in my bag.

As I take one out and dab at my eyes I hear Lorcan’s voice in the background. He’s speaking very softly so I can only pick up the occasional word . . .
stillborn
. . .
friend
. . .
closure
. . .

As he speaks I glance over. The receptionist’s face is softening, but I can see she’s not about to give way. When Lorcan’s finished, she speaks in a low, firm voice.
‘I’m very sorry but there’s nothing I can do—’

‘But I made an appointment,’ I sob. ‘How could anyone have booked me in to see him if he doesn’t work here?’

The receptionist pushes her glasses higher on her nose. She’s looking flustered now.

‘I’m really sorry if there’s been a mistake.’ She’s running her finger down the open page of the appointments book. ‘I can’t see your name down here,
but I could ask one of the other doctors if they could speak to you when they have a spare moment.’

‘But it’s Dr Rodriguez she needs to see.’ Lorcan’s voice is a perfect blend of firmness and courtesy. ‘Could you tell us how we can get hold of him?’

‘Yes,’ I add. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me getting in touch. He always said he’d be happy to see me if I needed to talk.’

The receptionist smiles sympathetically. ‘I’m really, really sorry but I’m afraid it’s against our policy to give out home addresses.’

Lorcan lays his hand on the desk beside hers. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’ he says softly. ‘We’d really appreciate it.’

The receptionist gazes at him. ‘Look . . .’ She hesitates. ‘I’ll go and speak to the office manager. Maybe there’s a way we can get in touch with him . . . pass on
your
details so he can contact you.’ She smiles at Lorcan, then trots away out of sight.

‘We don’t want Rodriguez knowing I’m trying to track him down,’ I hiss.

‘It’ll be okay, we didn’t give your real name.’

I nod, then wander across the room. Through the glass doors at the back I can just make out the weeping willow tree I spent hours staring at during the hours immediately after Beth’s
birth. The birthing pod lies just beyond. It’s so strange to be back here, among sights that are so familiar and yet feel like they belong to another lifetime.

A moment later and the receptionist is back. Another woman – older and hard-faced – is beside her.

‘Hello?’ The office manager stares at me without smiling.

Oh, God, it’s the woman I spoke to yesterday on the phone.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, but—’

‘And
I’m
sorry, but it’s simply against our policy to pass on personal information.’ She pauses, her eyebrows raised. ‘It was you who called here
yesterday, wasn’t it?’

‘No,’ I lie, shame at being caught out flushing my neck.

‘Really?’ The raised eyebrows arch higher. ‘Of course, if it was you who called, you’d know Dr Rodriguez doesn’t work here any more and you most definitely would
not
have an appointment him, would you?’

My whole face is burning.

The office manager offers me a contemptuous sniff. ‘Dr Rodriguez moved house soon after he left here,’ she says with a stony finality. ‘There was no forwarding
address.’

Is that true? I stare at her pursed lips, the lipstick running into the lines around her mouth. There’s absolutely no warmth in her eyes at all. The receptionist, standing beside her,
looks mortified. She keeps shooting apologetic glances at Lorcan.

‘I can only assume that if Dr Rodriguez had wanted anyone to be able to find him, he would have left some way for us to reach him,’ the office manager says. ‘But he
hasn’t.’ She draws herself up to her full height.

We stare at each other. I can’t tell whether the woman is simply breathtakingly officious, or whether she has been primed by Dr Rodriguez to fend off all enquiries. Then I realize Lorcan
is tugging at my arm.

‘Thanks very much for your help.’ He nods at both the receptionist, whose face is still shrouded in embarrassment, and the office manager. Then he gently steers me outside.

The wind is up suddenly, cold against my face. I tug on my blue beanie as we walk down the steps in silence, back to the car.

‘Guess we’ll just have to track down Rodriguez some other way,’ Lorcan says with a sigh.

I nod, my mind running over the possible options. I’ve already Googled Rodriguez and he’s not listed in Yell.com or on Facebook or LinkedIn or the General Medical Council’s
register of doctors. What other ways of finding the man are there?

We reach Lorcan’s car and I walk round to the passenger side.

‘Wait!’ A faint cry echoes down the street towards us.

It’s the receptionist from the hospital, scuttling along the pavement. She reaches Lorcan and says, breathlessly, ‘Oh thank goodness I caught you. I’m so sorry about that,
inside.’ She glances sideways at me and I sense she wants to speak to Lorcan alone.

I duck inside the car and pull the door to. Outside, Lorcan leads the receptionist a few steps away. They speak quietly together. A couple of minutes later, Lorcan gets into the car beside
me.

‘What was that about?’

‘She was very sorry for you; wanted to help.’ Lorcan sits back in his seat, a slow smile creeping across his face.

‘But how?’

‘She had a quick word with one of the nurses who’s been at the hospital for years. Knew Rodriguez well, apparently. They’re pretty sure he stayed local.’ He raises his
eyebrows. ‘Came into some money, the nurse said.’

‘So did she give you his address?’ My heart’s beating against my throat.

‘Not exactly, but she told me the place he moved to. A Cotswold village called Mendelbury. Very pretty, apparently. Won a regional garden show last year.’

I stare at him in wonder.

Lorcan pulls a scrap of paper out of his pocket. ‘She even gave me her phone number,’ he says mischievously, ‘in case I can think of any other way she might be able to help me
. . . us.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘I bet she did.’ For a single, ridiculous second I feel jealous. Then it passes. Lorcan is still grinning. The heat fades from my body. Truth is, I don’t
like the fact that he’s capable of being so manipulative. Which is crazy. The man is only trying to help me.

Lorcan pockets the scrap of paper and switches on the engine. ‘Mendelbury?’

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s almost two. ‘Sure, but how are we going to find Dr Rodriguez if all we know is the village he lives in . . .’

Lorcan shrugs. ‘Guess we’ll just have to knock on every door until we find him – or someone who knows where he lives.’ He pulls out onto the empty road.

I laugh. ‘You’re mad.’

He glances at me. ‘Yeah,’ he acknowledges, changing gear. ‘I’m a bag of spanners. But don’t think I’m doing you any favours. I’m enjoying spending the
afternoon with you.’

I look out of the window, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and pleased. A row of terraced houses gives way to a line of shops. I point to the sign for Mendelbury, Lorcan takes the turning and
we drive on in silence.

‘Jesus, how many more houses are there?’ Lorcan groans as we slump onto a bench opposite Mendelbury’s village green. The place isn’t large – my
mobile Google search says the population is just over 2000 – and most of it is concentrated around this central patch of grass. A beautiful sandstone church – centuries old –
stands to our left. The surrounding houses are made from the same local sandstone, with small windows and ivy-clad walls.