Close My Eyes (3 page)

To be honest, I like the idea of Art wanting to have sex with me more than the sex itself. Our conversation about the IVF is still running through my head, and it’s hard to let go and
relax. I move a little, trying to be turned on, but it’s just not happening. Art approaches sex pretty much like he approaches everything else – when he wants it he goes and gets it.
Not that I’m saying he’s ever been unfaithful. And I don’t mean he’s
bad
in bed, either. Just that he didn’t have much idea when I met him, so everything he
does now I taught him to do. And he’s still doing it, exactly like I showed him fourteen years ago.

‘Gen?’ Art’s propped up on his elbow beside me, frowning. I hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped touching me.

I smile and take his hand and put it back between my legs. I will myself to respond. It works, a little. Enough, anyway. Art’s convinced I’m finally letting go and eases himself
inside me.

I let my mind drift. My focus turns to the pile of recycling downstairs. All that paper. I know that what really bothers me is the reminder of all the written words out there – the endless
magazines and books competing for space on shop shelves. And that’s before you include the internet. I used to be part of it all: I wrote and published three books in the time between
marrying Art and getting pregnant with Beth. Sometimes the amount of published material in the world feels suffocating – squeezing the air out of my own words before they have a chance to
come to life.

Art moans and I move again to show willing.

It’s not just the paper stuff either. Art’s ‘Mr Ethical’ and insists we are ultra-green, with separate boxes for everything: aluminium, cardboard, glass, food waste,
plastic . . .

Sometimes I just want to chuck it all in a black bag like we did when I was growing up. My mind slides to a memory from childhood. I’m struggling to carry a bin bag across the back garden,
the grass damp under my feet. I’m hauling it towards Dad, who’s on a rare visit home between tours. The grass smells sweet and fresh. Dad has just mown it and now he’s making a
compost heap with the cuttings. I want to help. That’s why I’m carrying the contents of the kitchen bin out to him. He laughs and says most of the contents won’t rot so we make a
bonfire instead. I can still remember the smell of the fire, my face burning hot while the cold wind whips across my back.

Art’s kissing my neck as he thrusts harder into me. I just want him to get on with it . . . get it over . . . As soon as we’re done he’ll fall asleep and then I’ll get up
and have a cup of tea.

Art’s breathing is heavier now, his movements more urgent. I know he’s close, but holding back, waiting for me. I smile up at him, knowing he’ll know what I mean. A minute
later, he comes with a groan and sinks down onto me. I hold him, feeling him slide out of me and the wetness seeping out onto the bed. I love the way he feels so vulnerable like this, his head on
my chest.

I wait . . .

Art nuzzles into me, sighing contentedly, then rolls off, leaving just one arm draped over my chest. His breathing deepens and I slip out from under his arm. It’s one of those things that
I know, but don’t want to face: our sex life has got into a rut. Unsurprising after so many years, I suppose. And it’s certainly a lot better than during the years when I was obsessed
with getting pregnant. I know Art felt under pressure then, having to do it at the right times, and I hated how trying to conceive took all the fun and spontaneity out of it. I stopped checking
when I ovulate ages ago but maybe all that history has taken its toll. Or maybe it’s just classic, married sex: predictable, comfortable, safe. I’m not complaining, though. One day
I’ll talk to Art properly about it. He’ll listen, I know he will. He’ll want to make it better. Which means he will. I’ve never known Art fail at anything.

Art’s iPhone rings from his trouser pocket on the floor. He wakes with a start, then sighs as he reaches over the side of the bed to retrieve it.

As he starts talking, I get up and go downstairs.

I wake up. The bed beside me is empty. Art is long gone, headed to Heathrow. A damp towel lies across his pillow. Irritated, I push it onto the floor.

Half an hour later I’m dressed and spreading butter and Marmite on my toast. The day stretches ahead of me. My normal Wednesday morning class has been cancelled and I have no appointments.
Not even coffee with Hen. But I have this niggling sense that there’s something I’m supposed to do today.

You could write
, says a voice in my head.

I ignore it.

The doorbell rings and I pad to the front door. I’m not expecting anyone. It’s probably just the postman. Still, you can’t be too careful. I hook on the chain, open the door
and peer through the crack.

A woman stands on the doorstep. She’s black and plump and middle-aged.

I instantly assume she’s a Jehovah’s Witness and brace myself.

‘Are you Geniver Loxley?’ Her voice is soft, with a hint of a Midlands accent.

I stare at her. ‘How do you know my name?’

The woman hesitates. It seems unlikely that a Jehovah’s Witness would have this kind of detail, so I’m now assuming some kind of invasive mailing-list scenario. Still, the woman
lacks the bravado of the sales-trained. In fact, now I’m looking closely at her I realize she’s nervous. She’s wearing a cheap suit made of some kind of nylon and sweat stains are
creeping out from under the armpits.

‘I . . . I . . .’ she stammers.

I wait, my heart suddenly beating fast. Has Art been in an accident? Or someone else I know? The door is still on its chain. I open it properly. The woman presses her lips together. Her eyes are
wide with fear and embarrassment.

‘What is it?’ I say.

‘It’s . . .’ The woman takes a deep breath. ‘It’s your baby.’

I stare at her. ‘What do you mean?’

She hesitates. ‘She’s alive.’ The woman’s dark eyes pierce through me. ‘Your baby, Beth, is alive.’

I stand in the doorway feeling my stomach drop away. I am still holding the door chain. I press my finger against the metal nub until it hurts.

‘What?’ I say. A car zooms past the house. A man shouts in the distance. The world is going on somewhere else. Here, everything has been turned inside out. ‘What did you
say?’

‘Oh goodness.’ The woman’s hands flutter up to her face. They’re surprisingly delicate for her size. ‘Oh, Mrs Loxley, please may I come in?’

I tense, all my instincts shrieking a warning through my head.

Whatever this woman has to say, she can say out here. I’m not letting her into my home. I hold the door steady, in case the woman tries to barge past me, but she just shuffles from side to
side, looking increasingly awkward.

‘Why did you say . . . what you said?’ I stammer. ‘Who are you? How do you know my name?’

‘Mrs Loxley . . .’ She coughs, a dry, nervous cough. ‘I’m Lucy O’Donnell. My sister was Mary Duncan. She died last year.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘My sister is . . . was . . . a nurse. She was there with you at the Fair Angel hospital when you had your baby. She told me that your baby was born alive and well.’ The woman puts
her hand to her cheek. ‘The doctor who delivered her took her away from you while you were still under the general anaesthetic. He lied to you.’

‘No.’ This is all ridiculous. What the hell does this woman think she’s doing? Anger bubbles inside me.

‘Yes,’ Lucy insists.

‘No. My baby died.’ As I force the words out, my anger boils over. I push the door shut, but Lucy O’Donnell’s scuffed shoe blocks it.

‘I know this is a shock,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait down the road. There’s a café . . . Sam’s something . . .? I’ll be there until eleven
o’clock. That’s one hour from now.’ She casts me a final glance of appeal, then shifts her shoe.

I slam the door and turn away, shaking.

How can this be happening? And
why
? I don’t understand.

I can’t stand still. I pace the hall. Then I stop and lean against the wall. The paint on the door jamb opposite is peeling. I stare at the line of exposed wood. We had the whole house
painted when we moved in six years ago. It needs doing again. My pulse is racing. I close my eyes.

Lucy O’Donnell. Mary Duncan.
These names mean nothing to me.

I get out my phone but even as I’m dialling I’m remembering that Art’s in a meeting in Brussels. The call goes to voicemail. I leave a breathless message telling him to ring
back urgently and slump against the wall.

Why would anyone turn up on the doorstep to tell such a monstrous lie? For a joke? As a dare? Though Lucy O’Donnell didn’t look like she was enjoying herself very much. Who would put
her up to this?

Doubt and fear swirl around my head. A thought seizes me and I fly up the stairs. Mary Duncan’s name should be easy enough to check. Surely we must have hung onto some paperwork from the
maternity hospital? The Fair Angel was a private, state-of-the-art facility; Art will have a file on it somewhere. I race into his office on the second floor, a large, light room with lots of
storage and shelving. I scan the file names in the cabinet: it’s all accounts and clients. Nothing personal.

I walk to the window and peer out. There’s no sign of Lucy on the street. Where had she said she was going? Sam’s Deli – the café at the top of the road. I glance at the
clock on Art’s desk. 10.15.

I try to focus on what she said . . . that her sister was one of the nurses present when Beth was delivered. That the doctor only pretended Beth was dead.

It’s insane. Inconceivable. I might not remember the nurse, but I certainly recall Dr Rodriguez, the god of an obstetrician I was assigned at the Fair Angel. He was tanned and handsome and
oozing calm bedside manner – there’s no way he would have done
anything
unprofessional, let alone lie about our baby and take her away from us.

I lean my head against the cold glass of the window pane. It’s been so long since I’ve let myself relive the time leading up to the C-section. Art and I spent the last month of my
pregnancy at a rented house just outside Oxford. We went there to be close to Fair Angel, which I chose, like so many before me, because of its amazing natural-birth pod – a unit which I
never, of course, got to experience. In the end, my thirty-seven-week scan showed Beth was dead and I had a C-section under general anaesthetic straightaway. At the time I thought that Dr Rodriguez
agreed to move so fast out of compassion. Could that decision really have been part of a plan to take Beth away from me?

I look out over the roofs and chimneys of our Victorian neighbourhood. Back in Oxford, our rented house near the Fair Angel hospital was the perfect place to be heavily, dreamily pregnant. It
overlooked the river Cherwell: beautiful and peaceful, with a small wood in the grounds and a long stone path leading down to the water’s edge. Being there suited my mood. I’d slowed
right down by that last month and drifted through my days, all the exhaustion and sickness of the first trimester long behind me.

Art worked the whole way through our time there, although, to be fair, he only disappeared off to London a couple of times each week. We had a few visitors: my mum came, as did some of our
friends. Art’s sister, Morgan, visited twice, on whirlwind stopovers as she jet-setted between her main home in Edinburgh and her offices in New York and Geneva. Even though her visits were
short, she was incredibly thoughtful, organizing a driver to take me to the birthing centre for check-ups; a daily supply of the fresh, organic grapes that I craved throughout the last three
months; and sending a steady stream of flowers plus a hugely expensive cut-glass vase to put them in. During our time in Oxford I saw Dr Rodriguez every few days and never once did he make me feel
uncomfortable or suspicious that he had anything other than my best interests at heart.

The rumble of the rubbish-collection truck outside stirs me from my memories. I watch the truck stop and the men inside get out and stride over to my neighbour’s wheelie bin. I give myself
a shake. Nothing that Lucy O’Donnell has told me can possibly be true. It’s just some cruel trick.

I go back downstairs, find my mobile and call Hen. Crazy and flaky, but fiercely loyal, she’s been my best friend since sixth form. We used to introduce ourselves together, grinning, like
a double act: Gen and Hen.

She answers on the second ring.

‘Hey, how are you?’

I hesitate. Now that I’m faced with communicating what Lucy O’Donnell has told me, it sounds almost too ludicrous to say out loud. I must be mad even to have considered it might be
true.

‘You’re not going to believe this.’ I plunge right in. ‘A woman just turned up on my doorstep and told me Beth is still alive.’

‘
What
? No way.’ Hen gasps. I can hear the outrage in her voice and instantly feel better.

I explain exactly what O’Donnell said.

‘Oh my God, I can’t believe anyone would
do
that.’

‘She is just some nutter, isn’t she?’ As I speak I realize how much I’m looking to Hen to reassure me.

‘Or worse,’ Hen says darkly. ‘Sounds like she could be just trying to get you out of the house for a few minutes or something.’

‘Why?’

‘Probably so she – or whoever she’s working with – can sneak into the house to burgle it while it’s empty.’

I think of the plump, anxious woman who stood on my doorstep.

‘I don’t think that’s it,’ I say uncertainly.

‘Then what the hell is she playing at?’ Hen’s voice rises. ‘Why would anyone make up such a terrible story? Why would anyone want to hurt you like that?’

‘You don’t think I should go down the road and . . . and find out more?’

‘Jesus Christ, Gen, no
way
.’ I can just picture Hen’s expression as she speaks, her pale eyes wide with shock, her frizzy hair wild around her face. ‘Don’t
give the mad cow the satisfaction of thinking she’s got to you.’

I’m chewing at the skin around my fingernail. I tear a tiny strip of skin away with my teeth.