Close My Eyes (30 page)

‘Art invited me to stay.’ Morgan flicks her dark hair over her shoulder. A gesture of defiance.

‘Did he invite you to rummage around in his office too?’ I snap, remembering the creaking floorboards that betrayed her presence.

Morgan rolls her eyes. ‘He rang me just now to ask me to look something up in a file for him. I’m waiting for my car, then I’m into town for a meeting.’ She tilts her
head to one side. ‘Doesn’t Art ever ask
you
to help him like that, Geniver? After all, you’re at home all day.’ She pauses, a sneer creeping across her lips.
‘No, I suppose he doesn’t. Not reliable enough.’

I’m so angry I can’t speak. In the back of my mind I know that my fury is partly because Morgan has touched a nerve. But she has no right to say any of this.

Morgan sniffs. She looks at my bag again. ‘Where were you last night?’ she asks. ‘Maybe it’s
you
having the affair?’

‘What?
Jesus
, Morgan . . .’

‘You’ve been with Lorcan Byrne, haven’t you?’

I freeze.

‘Nothing’s happened.’ The words are out of my mouth before I realize how guilty they make me sound.

‘Between you and Lorcan?’ Morgan raises an eyebrow. ‘
Really?
I’ve met the man before. I know how he operates.’

What the hell does that mean?

‘How do you know I’ve even
seen
Lorcan?’ I say.

‘Art told me,’ Morgan says. ‘And Hen knows all about it too. She called Art after you ran out on her last night. It was obvious to both of them that you’d gone to
him
. Poor Hen was
weeping
down the phone.’ Morgan shakes her head. ‘You put her in a terrible position, Geniver. It’s very selfish.’

‘
What?
’

‘Oh, come on. Art and Hen know Lorcan’s reputation as well as I do.’

‘You mean the reason he got fired?’ I say. ‘That was a long time ago. Lorcan’s just been helping me.’

Morgan throws me a contemptuous look. ‘I bet he’s outside waiting for you in his car right now.’

I say nothing. Fear swirls about my head. And embarrassment, too. It’s humiliating to think of Art discussing me and Lorcan with Hen and Morgan.

‘I saw the way he looked at you at Art’s party. Same old Lorcan. Like a wolf who’s picked out a sacrificial lamb.’ She pauses, her eyes widening. ‘God, is it
him
who’s fed you these ridiculous ideas about Art?’

‘No. And they’re not ridiculous.’

‘It
is
him,’ Morgan persists. ‘And I bet he’s denied sleeping with the client’s wife at the start of Loxley Benson too.’ Morgan snorts.

‘We haven’t talked about it, Morgan. Like I said, it was all a long time ago.’

I force myself to stop. I should just leave, and yet Morgan’s words about Lorcan being a wolf are running circles in my head.

Morgan senses my uncertainty.

‘Look, this is really hard for me to tell you, but I want you to know the truth.’ She draws closer and I get a whiff of her perfume. A dark, dense, herby smell. ‘It’s not
just that client’s wife. When Lorcan and Art travelled round the States there wasn’t a drug Lorcan didn’t take. And he got Art to try plenty of them too.’

‘So what?’ Lorcan and Art have already told me about this. ‘They were in their early twenties. It was years ago.’

‘It’s not just the drugs.’ Morgan purses her lips. ‘Lorcan slept with about twenty women on that trip. Most of them were older and wealthy. He
used
them,
Geniver. And it wasn’t just on vacation. I know of at least three similar cases back home. And when he was friends with Art he often juggled two women without the other’s knowledge. Art
told me.’ She pauses. ‘Did you know Lorcan has got someone in Ireland right now?’

Her self-righteousness is almost funny. And yet, if I’m honest, I don’t want to hear that Lorcan has a reputation as some kind of womanizer.

‘I know he has a girlfriend,’ I say. ‘He told me. Anyway, the rest of it is ancient history. You don’t know anything about Lorcan now.’

‘People don’t change. Believe me.’

‘Right.’ I march past her to the door. I want her out of my house, but Art has asked her here. He has turned to her, like he turned to Hen, because I went away. And everything is
such a mess.

I walk out, my eyes full of tears, slamming the door behind me.

Lorcan raises his eyebrows as I get back in the car, but I shoot a warning glance at Bernard, hunched over in the back seat, and Lorcan takes the hint and says nothing.

We go to my bank and I request the transfer of £20,000 from the savings account that Art and I share to Bernard’s account. I call the Art & Media Institute and say I’m ill
again, too sick to take today’s class. I just don’t care anymore. Then I phone Jim Ralston, Art’s accountant. I can’t stop thinking about the money Art paid MDO and
Hen’s conviction that those initials stand for Manage Debt Online. Could terrible debts that I don’t know about have something to do with Art’s lies about Beth?

Jim Ralston answers my call straightaway – such is Art’s influence these days. I explain I’m going over some old papers and was wondering how long I should keep financial
records.

Jim goes into mind-numbing detail on the ins and outs of different types of records and their requirements. I let him talk for a minute or two, then ask if Art has any debts that I should be
worried about.

‘No.’ Jim sounds a bit anxious. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you asking? Has Art said something?’

‘No, it’s just me,’ I say quickly. ‘Probably just being neurotic, not wanting to believe everything’s really going as well as it is.’

‘Well, you can believe it,’ Jim says with a satisfied chuckle. ‘Loxley Benson is making money hand over fist . . . bucking all economic trends, in fact. As MD, Art takes an
excellent income from the business. But you know that, Geniver.’

‘What about debts from the past?’ I enquire.

‘There was never that much debt, considering,’ Jim says thoughtfully. ‘Nothing to speak of now. Er, Geniver, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s all this
about?’

‘Nothing.’ I get off the phone, feeling confused. If Art has never had terrible debts, then Hen must have been wrong about Manage Debt Online. And yet she seemed so sure. Of course,
it’s entirely possible Jim is lying – he works for Art rather than me, after all. But nothing I’ve ever seen makes me suspect Art has ever had large debts. He took a huge risk
setting up Loxley Benson and the company’s fate was certainly touch-and-go at first – but all that was fourteen years ago. Beth wasn’t conceived for another six years after that
– and Loxley Benson was doing really well by then.

The £20,000 is transferred to Bernard O’Donnell’s account. It’s a lot of money, but not that much in terms of our annual income. I remember Lucy O’Donnell saying
they were struggling, and how I’d thought she was lying to get money out of me. I know this payment to Bernard is partly an attempt to assuage my guilt but it’s surely better than doing
nothing. After all, if I’d taken Lucy seriously when she came to see me, she might still be alive. The money I’m giving her husband is my apology.

I don’t tell Bernard how much I’ve transferred until it’s done, then I walk back to where he and Lorcan are waiting in the Audi and hand Bernard the print-out.

‘I hope this is useful,’ I say.

Bernard looks down at the paper. His weather-beaten face crumples with shock. He looks up at me, his mouth gaping open.

‘I can’t believe this,’ he stammers. ‘I thought you were just going to cover my travel costs. You didn’t have to do it, Mrs Loxley. Lucy and me, we always managed
okay . . .’

‘She told me you had two kids still at home,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to help a little, especially now . . . now they’ve lost their mother . . .’

He nods. ‘Thank you,’ he says, his eyes filling with tears.

‘It’s nothing,’ I say, looking away. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

We drop Bernard back at Lorcan’s so he can pick up his hire car. He’s planning to spend the next few hours following Art again, while Lorcan and I check out the Wardingham Arms.
I’m aware this is a dangerous tactic. It’s risky for Bernard, and if Art has any idea he is being watched he will surely try to cover his tracks, leaving me further away from finding
Beth than ever. But Bernard is determined – and confident he can act without detection.

I wish him luck, then we exchange numbers and agree to talk again this afternoon.

As we drive off, Lorcan asks me what’s wrong . . . what happened when I went home earlier. I don’t tell him about Morgan – I just say I’m upset about Art deceiving me.
And yet Morgan’s accusations continue to prey on my mind.

The traffic is bad getting out of London, but once we’re on the motorway, the sun comes out and the roads clear. Lorcan and I talk about everything other than Art and Rodriguez. We talk
about books and films: what we like, what we’ve read and seen. And we talk about all the other things in our lives. Our work, our childhoods, our children . . . I tell Lorcan more about my
dreams of Beth. He listens attentively as I go into all the little details my unconscious has imagined – her thick, dark hair . . . the birth mark on her left shoulder . . . the open, joyful
expression on her face as I dreamed her blowing out the candles on her last birthday cake.

Lorcan tells me more about Cal, how he regrets spending so much time away from him . . . how he doesn’t feel he knows him or understands him at the moment. He tells me that he’d
really love to do more live theatre, but keeping Cal at his private school makes that impossible.

I talk about my writing, about the books I got published and the idea I was working on when Beth’s death slammed my brain shut.

‘My last book was called
Rain Heart
,’ I explain. ‘About a woman discovering her husband is having an affair with his business partner’s wife.’

‘Based on something that really happened?’ Lorcan raises his eyebrows.

I shake my head, remembering Charlotte West asking the same question. I gaze out of the car window, wondering if I’ve been hopelessly naive. What other reason than an affair can there be
for Art spending the afternoon in a hotel so far from work?

‘Do you think Art’s having an affair now?’ I ask.

Lorcan shrugs. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ It’s still hard to believe Art would be unfaithful, but then until a week ago it would have been unthinkable to imagine him faking our baby’s
death.

Now, anything seems possible.

The journey passes quickly and, soon after midday, we pull up outside the Wardingham Arms. The car park is at the front of the hotel, just as Bernard O’Donnell described.

As we walk inside, my chest tightens. We’re close to the truth now. I can feel it. The inn is old and, despite the sunshine outside, the lobby feels dark and cool. A couple of chairs are
set around a coffee table made of the same dark wood as the panelled walls. An elderly man wearing a cravat and sporting a comb-over looks up from the reception desk on the far wall. He smiles a
slightly stiff, formal welcome.

‘May I help you?’ he says.

‘A friend of ours recommended you. Art Loxley.’

The landlord nods. ‘Ah, Mr Loxley. One of our regulars. That’s nice to hear.’

My stomach cartwheels. So it really is true.

The landlord opens his book. ‘You’re in luck, we’re pretty quiet at the moment.’

‘He really liked the room you gave him last time, on Monday I think?’ I press my fingers hard against the reception desk, trying to keep my voice breezy and casual. ‘Is there
any chance we could have that one?’

The landlord frowns. ‘Mmm, well, yes, I suppose as it’s free . . .’

A few minutes later we’re inside room seven – full of the same dark wood furniture as downstairs, including a huge bed with a large, plum-coloured quilt that drapes to the floor. I
sit down on the edge of the bed and finger the quilt. Art has been in this very room. But with whom? There’s Hen, of course, but Hen and Art live just ten minutes’ drive from each other
in North London, so it seems unlikely they would conduct secret trysts all the way out here. My mind settles on Sandrine. She’s stylish, vivacious and smart and, for all I know, she and Art
have been going on “business trips” together for months, if not years.

Lorcan wanders to the window. ‘This place isn’t huge, someone must have noticed if Art met anyone here.’

I stare at the cream-coloured lamp beside the bed, imagining Sandrine’s slender fingers reaching for the light, then Art pulling her towards him, his eyes full of desire. The thought
sickens me.

‘Gen?’

I hadn’t even heard Lorcan speaking. I look up.

‘Do you think it’s worth searching the room to see if Art left anything behind? I know it’s a long shot, but . . .’ He tails off without pointing out what is obvious to
both of us: we have absolutely nothing else to go on.

I suddenly feel terribly depressed. After the frenetic activity of the past twenty-four hours, we seem to have hit a dead end. So what if Art was here? It doesn’t bring me any closer to
Beth.

I agree to search the room anyway. What else are we going to do? I follow Lorcan’s lead, turning out drawers and searching the nooks and crannies of the wardrobe, desk area and bathroom. I
leave the bed to Lorcan. I can’t bring myself to pore over the sheets, even though I’m well aware that the linen will have been changed since Art’s visit.

An hour passes. We find nothing and learn nothing. I go downstairs and chat to the landlord. I ask him if the hotel ever hosts functions, which leads me neatly to a mention of Art’s
birthday party. I refer to Art’s “girlfriend” as I talk, but the landlord doesn’t pick up on this at all. As far as I can make out, Art checks in alone.

Back upstairs, the window in the room won’t open and the air becomes heavy and stuffy. I switch on my phone for the first time since this morning and find yet more texts and messages. I
make myself deal with the latest communications – there’s a fresh text from Hen, saying she’s worried about me and asking me to call her and two new voicemails from Art –
both of which are rambling and frantic. ‘
Please, Gen, call me. This is madness. That film of yours must be a fake. Please, Gen, I’m so worried about you. Call me. I love you more
than anything in the world. Please believe me
.’ And on and on . . .