Never Close Your Eyes (30 page)

Bill stood up and brushed his hands on his trousers, which were a bit grubby. ‘Don't mention it.'

‘Everything's all right now,' Mum went on. ‘It's all sorted.' She turned to Freya: ‘Get in the car, quick!'

Freya hesitated. There was a weird atmosphere between them. She glanced from one to the other, she couldn't help it. Bill was looking hard at Mum. Something was up, blatantly.

‘I'm glad,' said Bill, ‘that it's all sorted.'

Mum's mouth looked like a cat's bum. She didn't reply.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘How are we all getting on with our writing, then?'

Tristram beamed at the class in front. Evie looked at the ground. Nic, sitting on her left, seemed about to speak but clearly thought better of it. Becca, on her right, fished a hankie out of her bag and blew her small, upturned nose.

Carol rose to her feet. ‘I'm really enjoying my writing,' she said in a loud voice. She hadn't taken off her coat – a rather grubby-looking tan-coloured sheepskin Afghan with red and orange embroidery on the shoulders and a shaggy collar. It looked like something she'd bought in the 1970s.

She probably had bought it in the 1970s, Evie thought.

‘Good,' said Tristram, still beaming. ‘Can you tell us a bit about it?'

Carol tucked some strands of grey hair behind her ears. ‘To tell you the truth,' she said, ‘I'm a bit embarrassed to say anything.'

‘Why's that?' Tristram asked.

‘Well, you see, I've scrapped my old book and started a new one – about my cats.'

Pamela, in the middle of the front row as usual, made a rude scoffing sound.

‘Your cats?' Tristram asked, ignoring the interruption.

‘Yes,' said Carol. ‘They talk to me, you see, and I write down what they say. They're very intelligent.'

Pamela couldn't contain herself. ‘Heaven help us!' she said, shaking her severe coiffure. The woman really is mad.'

Tristram gave her a stern look. ‘Can we let everyone have their say, please. This is a democratic meeting.'

‘It's all right,' Carol said huffily, plonking back down next to Becca. ‘I don't want to give too much away. Someone with no ideas of her own might try to steal my plot.'

‘As if,' Pamela muttered, resolutely refusing to look round.

There was an embarrassed silence while Tristram shuffled through some papers he was holding. ‘Ah yes,' he said, clearly spotting what he wanted. ‘What about anyone else before we move on to today's agenda? How are you others getting on?'

Nic raised an arm. ‘The words are flowing.' She did an exaggerated gushing movement with her hands. ‘But I'm getting in a hell of a muddle about the sequence of prevents – er, events.' She giggled, revealing her turquoise braces. ‘I'm not sure what should happen where.'

Evie frowned. Nic sounded odd. Was she tipsy?

‘Have you tried the stickies trick?' Russell asked, swivelling to face Nic. He was sitting to the left of Pamela.

Russell, the willy-and-fanny doctor, was as wispy and pale as ever and he'd grown a cute little goatee.

‘The stickies trick?' Nic asked. Her lips stuck out awkwardly because of the train tracks.

‘Get yourself a big piece of card or something,' Russell explained, ‘then write out everything that happens, chapter by chapter, on Post-It notes and stick them on the card. The great thing is, you can see everything at a glance. And you can move them round as much as you like if you think the sequence of events isn't right.'

Nic smiled again. ‘Great idea,' she said, swaying slightly in her seat. ‘Thanks.'

‘Excellent,' Tristram agreed. ‘Any other tips, observations, problems? No? Then I thought I should mention that apparently there have been thousands of requests for application forms for the writing competition.'

Several people turned to each other and started murmuring.

‘I don't think this should put any of us off.' Tristram had to raise his voice to be heard and the chunter stopped. ‘But we must redouble our efforts and make sure our writing is of the highest possible standard.'

‘I don't know why we're bothering.'

The voice came from the back of the class. Everyone craned to look. It was Angela, a mousy little woman with big, black, square glasses in her thirties who usually said very little. She was writing a novel about a girl who'd been raped and was self-harming. Her previous book was about a mother who killed her baby and hid the body in a suitcase in the loft.

Angela always seemed rather depressed; Evie couldn't help thinking she might be happier if she were to pick lighter subjects. She never said so, though.

Tristram removed his dark-green corduroy jacket and hung it on a chair beside him. ‘Now why do you say that, Angela?' he asked tetchily. ‘That's a very negative view.'

‘Well, what's the point?' she grumbled. ‘I mean, realistically, none of us is going to win.'

Tristram ran a hand down his red silk tie and rested it on his paunch. ‘You just never know,' he said. ‘Someone has to win, and we don't know what they're looking for. Besides, competition is good. Now when I was in the Army—'

Carol coughed. ‘Can we get on with tonight's agenda?' she said, glancing at her watch. ‘We did start rather late.'

Evie looked at her fingernails and shuffled uncomfortably. Carol was so rude. She was a bit of a godsend, though. She was the only one who dared to say what they were all thinking.

‘Oh, right,' said Tristram in a wounded voice, ‘yes, of course.' Evie felt almost sorry for him. ‘Um, this month I thought it would be a good idea to look at pacing. That is, if everyone agrees?'

There was a general murmur of assent.

‘I have an interesting article here, taken from a book about how to write a bestseller,' he continued. ‘The writer calls pacing “your story's heartbeat”.'

He cleared his throat and started to read: ‘“Good stories seem to fly along during the exciting bits, then slow down so that a reader can catch his breath before picking him up and rushing forward again, all with a definite sense of purpose.”'

He looked up. ‘Now, who's going to volunteer to read first so that we can analyse their pacing?'

Tim, sitting just in front of Evie, put his hand up. Bloody hell, he's brave, Evie marvelled. Tim was in his forties, she guessed, and was something to do with market research. He was small and round, with thinning grey hair and glasses that seemed too big for his face. He hadn't explained much about his novel, a thriller, but there seemed to be a lot about cars in it. He was very knowledgeable about different makes.

He himself drove a Toyota Yaris; Evie knew because he'd spotted her one day on her way to the station and kindly given her a lift. During the short ride, he'd outlined the pros and cons of the Yaris in impressive detail.

He stood up, holding his printed manuscript in front of him. ‘“The Mitsubishi Shogun pulled up alongside Ralph's Lexus RX high-performance hybrid at the traffic lights,”' he read.

Ralph, cradled in leather-lined luxury, smiled. Being green has never been so easy, he thought. He glanced at the driver. In just two hours, one would become a killer, the other his victim. For one second, the men's eyes met. Ralph glanced away quickly.

The lights changed and the Mitsubishi roared ahead, but the Lexus accelerated with V-8 gusto and soon caught up. The age of the high-performance hybrid is well and truly here, Ralph thought, gripping the steering wheel. He was still good-looking, even though he was in his fifties, but there were worry lines round his eyes.

He screeched round a bend and headed after the Mitsubishi, which he knew from experience not only was – but felt like – a huge car. It leaned over uncomfortably in corners, and the steering wasn't accurate enough. The ride was disappointing, too.

‘Stop please,' Tristram said. ‘Now, I can see several pacing problems here. Has anyone spotted them?'

Evie raised her hand. ‘I think it's a mistake to say: “In just two hours, one would become the killer, the other his victim.”'

Tristram nodded. ‘Why?'

‘Because it slows the passage down,' Evie said, ‘and also it's giving the plot away too soon.'

‘Exactly,' said Tristram. ‘Anything else?'

‘Well,' Evie said carefully, ‘I'm not sure if you need quite so much detail about the make and performance of the cars.' She was trying very hard to be tactful. ‘I think it reduces the excitement somewhat.'

Carol huffed. ‘Some of us aren't that interested in cars anyway,' she said. ‘I don't have one at all. I bet I'm the greenest one here!' she added with a flourish.

Evie cringed, hoping Tim wouldn't mind. She daren't look at him.

‘Yes, well some of us aren't interested in cats either,' Pamela spat. ‘Nasty, yowling creatures—'

Carol started to get up. ‘Don't you dare criticise my cats!'

‘Ladies, please,' Tristram said, exasperated. He raised his hands. Carol looked as if she were about to say something and then plonked herself down. Evie sighed with relief.

Tristram picked up a pile of paper from the table by his side. ‘Now I'd like you all to get some paper and a pen and scribble down a similar passage about a car chase, but with better pacing. I'll give you fifteen minutes, then we'll exchange notes.'

Carol leaned over and whispered in Evie's ear. ‘I think I'll write about a chase on my high-performance Raleigh.' She grinned, revealing her stained teeth.

Evie grinned back. ‘Shhh,' she said.

There was a decent crowd at the pub for once. Carol, Russell and Jonathan came, as well as Evie, Nic and Becca.

Jonathan was in his mid thirties and taught English to foreign students at a local adult-education college. He had long blond hair, a droopy moustache which he tended to twiddle with forefinger and thumb, and a weathered face. He'd spent years teaching abroad and was writing a stream-of-consciousness novel about a young man's sexual adventures in Spain and Italy. He rolled his own cigarettes, rode a motorbike and said ‘cool' a lot.

Pamela usually had an urgent call of nature whenever he started reading passages from his work. They did tend to get a little steamy.

Evie was sitting on a small, farmhouse-style carver chair. She wiggled, noticing to her dismay that it felt rather tight. ‘I think I'm developing writer's bum,' she said, half to herself.

Jonathan's ears pricked up. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Writer's bottom,' she repeated, feeling her cheeks go red when she realised that everyone was listening. ‘Don't tell me you all nibble on carrot sticks when you're typing? I'm afraid I tend to cram in junk food between chapter headings.'

Jonathan grinned. He was the wrong person to be talking to. Tall and skinny, he couldn't weigh much more than ten stone. And being obsessed with sex, the conversation would only encourage him. ‘Oh dear,' he said. ‘Writer's derrière, eh? Let's have a butcher's. I need to see the evidence.'

Evie sniffed. ‘Certainly not.'

Becca came to her rescue. ‘I've got writer's belly,' she said, patting her tummy. She was wearing a tight black polo-neck jumper tucked into grey work trousers and looked enviably slim. ‘I find I can't write without chocolate,' she went on, in that precise way that she had of speaking. ‘I reach for it whenever I hit a sticky patch. I always used to be a thin person, but not any more.'

‘Rubbish,' said Evie, scrutinising Becca's virtually non-existent tummy bulge. Come to think of it, Nic was one of those irritating types who ‘forgot to eat', too. Evie decided that she picked the wrong friends.

‘Oh, I wouldn't worry about writer's bottom, dear,' said Carol, grinning. ‘Some of us have writer's waist, thighs and underarms, too. Anyone for a Pringle?' She waved a tube at them.

Nic changed the subject. ‘Any interesting stories, Russell?' she asked, swigging from her glass of red wine. Evie noticed that three-quarters of Nic's drink was gone already; most of the others had only had a sip or two.

Nic was sandwiched between Russell and Jonathan on the bench seat opposite, facing the bar. They'd chosen the Fox and Rabbit this time, not their usual pub. This one was slightly cosier in winter.

Evie clocked that Jonathan was sitting very close to Nic, who was looking glamorous in a mustard-coloured cashmere sweater, a very short black skirt that showed off her good legs, and opaque black tights and boots. She was so trim that she could get away with it; she didn't look tarty. Come to think of it, she could actually do with putting on a few pounds.