Never Close Your Eyes (22 page)

He said he'd thought that she must have everything she wanted now, including the house, the car and their little boy. But it seemed not. For some reason she was bitter and vengeful, making it as difficult as possible for him to see the child. Evie felt desperately sorry for him; the ex sounded like a complete cow.

After a while he got up to fetch some white wine from the kitchen. When he returned with a bottle and two glasses, he'd brought a pile of tissues as well. It's true, she needed them. She'd been alternately crying and laughing, listening to his tale of woe and recounting hers. She was so grateful for the tissues, it made her cry again.

‘What have I done?' he asked, half horrified, half joking.

‘Nothing,' she said. ‘You've just been so lovely and open and kind. I realise how little Neil gave of himself or listened to me, really. Our marriage was so one-sided.'

Steve poured two large glasses of wine and handed one to Evie.

‘Well, I'd like to propose a toast: to moving on from rubbish exes.' They clinked glasses. ‘And the future.'

‘The future,' she said, suddenly too shy to look him in the eye.

They chatted some more, never running out of things to say, and polished off the bottle. Evie said they should go and talk to Becca and Nic but Steve seemed reluctant. She managed to persuade him, though.

‘Just for a moment,' she promised.

He certainly seemed keen. She loved the fact that he wasn't playing games, acting cool. They stood in the doorway of the sitting room and stared. The music was up loud – it was an old ABBA hit – and a small huddle of women in the middle of the room were dancing. Everyone else had backed away, to make space. Most of the women were moving well, in time to the music, but Nic was stomping and staggering.

‘Money, money, money,' she shouted, using weird, jerking movements.

Evie cringed. Couldn't someone stop her? Suddenly, Nic pulled up her dress to reveal stocking tops and a black thong. She began to wave her bum in the air, moving round in a circle to make sure everyone could see. There was an embarrassed giggle. Even Nic's dancing partners stopped and stared.

Evie looked around desperately for Alan and caught sight of him in a corner. He seemed to be hiding, propped against the wall. She willed him to step forward, take Nic in his arms, stop her making a fool of herself. But he didn't. Becca and Tom were nowhere to be seen.

She thought she should do something herself, but what if Nic pushed her off, making more of a scene? Evie felt a pull on her arm. She swung around and it was Steve. She was surprised. She'd forgotten about him.

He bent down and whispered in her ear: ‘Let's get out of here quick, before anyone notices.'

‘But—' Evie protested.

He was insistent. ‘Come on, let's go.'

And so they'd slipped away without saying goodbye to anyone. Evie felt guilty and deliciously naughty at the same time. And here they were, standing in her dingy hall shivering slightly, realising that they hardly knew each other after all.

‘Would you like a drink?' she asked, putting down her bag and taking off her coat. She couldn't think what else to say.

‘Are you having one?' He looked around for somewhere to hang his jacket.

‘I suppose so.'

‘Then I will too.'

Fortunately the kitchen wasn't too messy, though she feared that it smelled of burned toast and the overhead light was horribly garish. She turned it off and switched on the little downlighters above the worktops instead. For once, she was relieved that most of them were broken. They gave off a more forgiving glow.

She noticed that the stainless-steel bin in the corner of the kitchen was full to overflowing. Bloody Freya, why couldn't she ever empty it? There again, the bin was probably the last thing on Steve's mind.

She poured them both a whisky. She didn't even like whisky, but wasn't that what you did on occasions like this? She'd seen it in films, anyway. She was going to suggest that they wander into the sitting room. He took the glass out of her hand, put it on the table and lunged forward, squashing his lips against hers.

She was startled. His tongue slithered into her mouth and she closed her eyes quickly, determined to get back in the mood. His hands reached for hers. She wasn't sure what he wanted. He was feeling for her fingers, covering them, holding them, interlacing them with his. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. Reassured, she pulled away.

‘Quick, let's go upstairs,' she whispered. She thought of something: thank God she'd had a bikini wax. Bloody hell, though, she was wearing her big white comfy knickers. It crossed her mind that she could sneak off and change into her full-on black lacy set, but she ruled it out as too disruptive. She'd just have to busk it.

She wished a magic carpet would whisk them up. The thought of climbing all those steps made her apprehensive again. She was still in her pointy boots but she didn't want to take them off. She'd instantly shrink three inches and probably trip over her trouser legs.

She led him by the hand up the first flight of steps, stopping only for a second on the landing to check that Freya's and Michael's lights were off. She put a finger over her mouth. ‘Shhh.' He nodded.

By the time they got to the third floor she was out of breath. She couldn't bear to switch the lamp on in her bedroom, so she opened the curtains behind the bed to let in a chink of light from the street outside.

When she turned around he was right there in front of her, a dark, towering figure. She felt suddenly hopeless and incompetent. ‘I haven't done this for a while.' Her voice sounded small, silly. ‘Actually, I've only done it with one person – Neil – for, um, seventeen years.'

He didn't reply. He was fiddling with the bow at the back of her neck which held up the sparkly top. He managed to pull it undone and the top flopped down, threatening to reveal her strapless bra. Instinctively, she covered herself with her arms, but he gently prised them apart and pulled the top down to her waist. Then he quickly undid her bra, slipped it off and dropped it on the floor by her feet.

She felt exposed, far more so than she remembered feeling with Neil, though she supposed she'd been just as shy when they'd first met. But her saggy bits: would he find them a turn-off? Find her a turn-off? But he was kissing her breasts, licking her nipples, fumbling with the zip on her trousers.

She stayed his hand. She wasn't going to stand there like some passive little girl; she was a mature woman now. All those years with Neil must have taught her something, for God's sake.

Still half clothed, she started to undo the buttons on his shirt, his belt, the zip on his trousers, until he had just his boxer shorts on. She was relieved that they weren't Y-fronts. Neil never wore them. She thought she might have a problem with a man in Y-fronts.

Steve stepped out of his boxers and trousers and kicked them aside. Now he was fully naked, his penis standing right up in front of her. She pressed her thigh against the length of him, her body against his so that they were skin to skin, with no space between. She ran her hands over his back, his bum. He felt warm and alive and he smelled nice: clean and hot.

She knelt down and wrapped her arms around his thighs. His legs felt smooth and sinewy. Neil's were thicker, hairier. Stop thinking about Neil. Stop making comparisons.

She kissed the tip of him and he moaned appreciatively. She started: HIV, Aids. Why hadn't she thought of it? She was always drumming it into Freya: be responsible when the time comes, practise safe sex. But what to do? She didn't have any condoms, there hadn't been any need.

Steve was waiting, expectantly.

‘One moment,' she whispered in a low, barely-there voice that she hoped wouldn't spoil the moment. ‘Do you have, erm, a condom?'

To her relief he bent down, rustled around in his trousers and produced a small packet. He ripped it open with his teeth and expertly rolled it on. She wondered, vaguely, if all unattached men carried them around these days or if Steve was ever optimistic. Whatever, he knew what he was doing.

Finally, she lowered her head again and slipped him in her mouth. The bitter, pungent rubber made her gag. Bloody hell, shame it wasn't banana flavour or something. But it was clear from the sounds he made that he liked it so she carried on. After a few moments he pushed her away. Then they were on the bed and he was pulling off her boots, her trousers and her big, white knickers. He paused for a moment and she feared that he was going to say something but he didn't. Instead, he dived down and started using his fingers, his tongue, flickering forward and back in a way that was quite unlike anything she'd experienced before. Neil didn't do it like that.

She tried to lose herself, to focus only on the sensation, but unwanted thoughts wormed their way in, distracting her. She saw Neil making love to Helen. Was he doing that nibbling thing that he used to do with her thighs? She saw Michael, asleep. Could he hear anything? It was a mash of images, confusing, troubling.

Tears of frustration sprang in her eyes. Steve must be tired by now. She reached down and touched his head, his hair. He placed his hand on hers and guided it between her legs, urging her to finish.

She came with a peculiar, painful little shudder, a reflexive spasm. She was relieved all the same. He nudged her on to her tummy, raising her pelvis with his hands before he entered, slipping in easily. He started to pant in and out and she knew that it was about to be over. She raised her head for a second, glimpsed the empty street outside through the chink in the curtains. Everything looked so normal.

He gave a loud groan that made her want to cry with relief herself: it had been so long. Tears trickled down her cheeks but she wiped them away. She was just being silly. The weight of his slumped body on hers, the stickiness of his warm skin, the pumping of his slowing heart against her ribcage, these were the things that she'd missed as much as her own moment of release.

At last he rolled on to his back and put his arm around her. She nestled into his body, aware of the bigness of him, the bulk. She looked up at the ceiling. She thought his eyes were closed.

‘You'll have to sneak out before the children wake up,' she whispered. At least it was Sunday tomorrow. Even Michael tended to sleep in on a Sunday.

‘Mmm?' He sounded barely awake.

‘The children – they mustn't find you here. It wouldn't be fair.'

He turned on to his side, away from her.

‘I'll wake you in the morning, before my kids are up,' she repeated.

He grunted. He'd heard.

She snuggled into his back, her nose against his shoulder blade, her arm around him, thinking of Zelda, thinking of the future.

She knew that she wouldn't get much sleep, not with so much to reflect on, not with having to remember to wake him early. But it didn't matter. He was The One. Zelda had foreseen it. Evie couldn't wait to speak to Zelda tomorrow.

Thank God it was over. She'd done it; she'd made love with someone who wasn't Neil. In one night everything had changed. The whole world had tilted, and the landscape ahead looked completely different.

Chapter Twenty

Nic opened one eye, then the other, and closed them again. Her mouth was parched, grainy and bitter. The braces were digging into her gums, too. She had no idea where she'd left the wax that she was supposed to rub on the metal. She wanted to swallow but couldn't.

She remembered the glass of water beside the bed and started to lift her head but it was too heavy.

She flopped back on the pillow.

Last night. She had vague fragments of memory, like frayed scraps of fabric on a dressmaker's floor. She saw people. Lots of people. Ah yes, the party. Alan's face staring and inscrutable. What was he thinking? She must have made a fool of herself – again. But what had she done? She couldn't remember.

The magazines. She remembered those. Young girls, their mouths open, legs apart, being breached front and back by faceless men old enough to be their fathers. She opened her eyes and the half-light poured in. Even her eyeballs felt dry. Lucky the curtains were thick, shielding her from a more brutal assault.

She was here. Alan was beside her. She was still safe.

She propped herself on her elbow. There was a sharp pain on the left side of her forehead that made her teeth jangle. She must have water. There was no moisture in her body. She was an old towel that had gone stiff and hard in the sun. She took a few sips. She needed more, the whole cupful, but a few sips were all she could manage.

She could feel the liquid trickle down her throat into her stomach, which keeled like a ship. What was there to get up for, to look forward to today – any day? Just today would do. She scrabbled around, trying to recall a lunch date, a party, any distraction. It was Sunday. A day of rest. Only long, grey hours stretching ahead.