Never Close Your Eyes (33 page)

‘Of course not,' he said, scratching his head. ‘Whatever are you thinking? Now, when shall we meet again?'

‘Whenever you want,' she said dully.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sat in the back of the cab, staring out of the window into the blackness. Her mind was racing. What did he want of her? What was he up to? If only she could delve into his brain and discover what his plan was.

She felt sick with that feeling of being out of control. But this was worse, far worse than flying. She'd take a hundred flights rather than be in the situation that she was in now. He had so much power – he could do almost anything he liked. It was terrifying.

It seemed likely that he intended to blackmail her and then sell her story to the highest bidder. Was that his game? He'd get a lot of money for it. The tabloids would love it. They'd have a field day. There'd be a huge scandal and they'd fire her at work. No doubt about it. They'd say clients could no longer trust her – and she wouldn't blame them.

They'd probably have to sell the Richmond house, and the farmhouse in Normandy that they hardly ever used. That would be no great loss. There was enough in the bank to pay the children's school fees. Their circumstances would be very different but they wouldn't exactly be on the breadline. She knew what poverty felt like. She wasn't afraid of having less money. But the kids . . . She scrabbled in her pocket for a tissue and wiped her eyes.

‘You all right, madam?' The taxi driver must wonder what on earth was the matter.

‘Yes,' she muttered, blowing her nose. It was all she could manage.

Alice and James would suffer dreadfully. They'd be so frightened and confused. She'd have to tell them everything. And Tom. She felt sweaty and cold at the same time. She realised that she was shaking. He'd leave her, for sure. He'd say he'd never known her, that he was married to a stranger. He'd be revolted by what she'd done. She sensed the carefully constructed edifice that she'd built around her slowly crumbling.

Hadn't she known this would happen one day? She was a fool for thinking she could get away with it. And she was the architect of her own destruction. How fitting!

The taxi drew up outside her house and she dug in her bag for her purse. The machine at the front said £11.38. She passed a fifty-pound note through the hatch. ‘Keep the change.' She didn't care. It didn't feel like hers anyway. She dragged herself off the back seat and climbed out. She felt shaky, uncertain of her feet.

‘Do you need a hand?' The cab driver sounded kind, concerned. It made things worse.

She shook her head. ‘No.'

The car pulled away and she stood with her hand on the heavy iron gate, reluctant to go inside. The light was still on in their bedroom at the front of the house. Tom must be awake. She could walk away now, keep walking, get a train somewhere. Go abroad. Disappear. She had her credit cards.

She had the car keys in her bag. She could drive to Beachy Head. She didn't fancy jumping. Or Brighton. Swim as far as she could and wait till the cold and the current got her. That sounded preferable.

‘Does Tom know what you did?' Gary had said. ‘Shame if he found out.'

It was odd that he hadn't mentioned money. He was insistent about seeing her again. That's when he'd ask for cash, at their next meeting. He was softening her up, making her sweat a bit. She didn't understand, though, what all the stuff about his marriage was about. And the way he'd said that he knew her really well – the essence of her. That was weird.

She heaved. She could taste bile mixed with the garlicky chicken she'd had earlier. She swallowed and the bile burned her throat as it went down.

She was startled by a noise above her.

‘Becks?' Tom had opened one of the sash windows in their bedroom at the top of the house and was leaning out. ‘What are you doing?' he called down.

He looked crumpled, as if he'd been asleep. He was in his stripy pyjamas and his mop of greying, curly hair was sticking up round his head. She felt a rush of love.

‘I'm coming!' she whispered.

She opened the heavy wooden front door, flung her briefcase down, raced up two flights of stairs and threw herself, panting, into his arms. He staggered slightly before righting himself.

‘What is it, darling?' he asked, stroking her dark hair. ‘What's the matter?'

His pyjama top smelled warm and comforting, of fabric conditioner – and Tom.

‘It's nothing,' she sobbed, ‘I've had a horrible day at work. I'm so glad to see you.'

He squeezed her to him. ‘There must be something else,' he whispered. ‘You're in such a state. Where did you go for dinner?'

‘Nowhere special.' Her body was still shaking. ‘Honestly, I've just had a terrible day, loads of hassle. I didn't want to go out this evening. I'm so tired. I just want you to cuddle me.'

‘Of course I'll cuddle you,' he replied, helping her off with her coat and jacket.

She struggled out of her skirt and tights, pulled on the cream silk nightie under her pillow and checked that the alarm beside her bed was on. Force of habit.

She lay on her side facing the window and he put his arms around her. She pushed her bottom back into the curve of his body, clamping her arms over his so that he couldn't take them away.

‘You silly girl,' he said, kissing the back of her neck. ‘It's not like you to get so het up about work. Maybe you need a holiday.'

‘Yes,' she whispered. ‘Maybe. Hold me, Tom. Don't let me go.'

He kissed her again. She could feel his warm breath on her skin.

‘You silly goose,' he replied. ‘I don't know what's come over you. You're my wife and there's nothing that could ever separate us. We're together for ever, you and me. You know that.'

Chapter Thirty

Nic was relieved when she was able to pull off the slip road on to the M4, heading towards Slough. She put her foot on the accelerator and signalled right into the middle lane, overtaking several cars in front. As the needle rose to 80 m.p.h. she felt her spirits lift slightly. She opened the window just a fraction and the cold wind whistled around her, making her blond bob blow about.

It was 9 a.m. on Friday morning and the roads were pleasantly clear. She turned on the radio. ‘Do They Know It's Christmas?' blared out. She turned it off again quickly: 12 December already and she hadn't bought a single present, not even for Dominic.

The dull, throbbing headache that she woke up with most mornings had dispersed after several painkillers, but they couldn't obliterate the anxiety that gnawed away at her insides. She felt panicky all the time. It helped to be on the road, though, getting away from the house, leaving the empty bottles and the scene of her crime behind.

She felt for the mints on the passenger seat, eased one out of the tube and popped it in her mouth. That'd help mask the smell of alcohol on her breath. She must have drunk a heck of a lot last night because she couldn't remember much about it, not after she'd got Dominic off to bed.

She vaguely recalled Alan coming home and sticking his head round the door to say hello while she was watching TV. He must have spent the rest of the evening in his study because she didn't think she'd seen him again.

She also recollected squeezing the dregs out of that box of wine that had been left over from the party a few weeks before. She could picture herself on the sofa, her head thrown back, ripping the cardboard off to reveal the plastic bag inside and sucking at the nozzle to drain the very last drops. It had seemed funny at the time.

Well, it didn't seem funny now.

She had no idea when she'd gone to bed, just that she'd woken up in all her clothes – apart from her pants and jeans which were on the floor in an untidy mess beside her. Dominic was shaking her awake. Alan was nowhere to been seen; he must have left for work already. Thank God.

She shivered, remembering the shock of her discovery: ‘Wake up, Mummy, we'll be late,' Dominic was saying. She'd moved her legs slightly and realised that she was lying in wet sheets, that it was damp all around her. At first she didn't understand; she must have spilled her glass of water. Or had Dizzy somehow jumped up without her noticing and made a mess? That seemed highly unlikely.

Nic had sniffed the duvet when Dominic turned away. She'd closed her eyes and waited as the truth rolled over her: she'd peed in the bed.

She checked the driving mirror and swallowed. This wasn't right. This was seriously wrong. She was in trouble. The road ahead started blurring up. She sniffed. She mustn't cry now; it was dangerous. She'd have an accident.

She'd managed to get up, strip the bed, shove everything in the washing machine and even pull the mattress off the base. She'd made a half-hearted attempt to wash the mattress with a flannel, but she knew it wouldn't work. She'd just have to leave it to dry. She was disgusting.

She'd had a shower and pulled on clean clothes: her See by Chloé blouse and her favourite black trousers. Downstairs, she'd tidied up the kitchen while Dominic was having breakfast, then she'd rushed him off to school before hitting the motorway.

She glanced to her left and checked that her notebook was on the seat with the mints. Good. She must focus on the
Mums
magazine interview, then she'd think about what she was going to do about the other thing. There were people out there who could help. Organisations. She'd heard of them. But then everyone would discover. Evie, Becca, Dominic. Mummy.

No.

She spotted the turning for Slough West, signalled and swung sharply off the motorway. A car behind her hooted. ‘Fuck off,' she said.

It was strange to see Christmas trees in people's front windows as she left the dual carriageway and drove along residential streets again. She couldn't imagine going out and buying a Christmas tree and decorating it. Alan would have to do it. Poor Dominic.

She realised that she had no idea where to go from here. She pulled into a lay-by and set the sat nav. ‘Cross the bridge and turn right at the roundabout in fifty metres,' the voice said. Thank God for sat nav. She'd be hopelessly lost otherwise.

Nic was pleased when she entered the wide, tree-lined street leading to Cookham Village and spotted the Thames drifting lazily along on her right. Various small boats were moored along the bank and a few people were out with pushchairs and dogs. They were wearing jackets and trousers, mainly, not coats and scarves; the weather was mild for the time of year and Nic herself was quite comfortable in just her silk blouse, though she'd put her jacket on when she got out of the car.

She noticed how slowly people were walking, as if they were in no hurry. It felt almost like another country after the hustle and bustle of London. She could quite see why you would choose to live here. She spotted the converted chapel, now the Stanley Spencer Gallery, on her left and turned into the High Street as instructed, passing what looked like an ancient Tudor pub and a shop called the Old Apothecary. After leaving the High Street she continued on for a mile or two to the outskirts of the village until she was instructed to stop.

She was outside a pretty Victorian house with a small paved front garden. Luckily, she could park right opposite the front door. Nic pulled on the handbrake, turned off the ignition and checked her face in the mirror. Now that the car was no longer moving she realised how bad she felt – weak and slightly nauseous. There were beads of sweat on her forehead and upper lip.

She reached for her bag on the floor of the passenger seat and dabbed her face with a hankie. Then she combed the knots out of her hair and put on her Mac pinky-brown lipstick.

Teresa, the woman she was to interview for
Mums
, opened the door before Nic had time to ring the bell. Nic was relieved. She wasn't in the mood for a tricky interviewee and Teresa looked comfortingly unthreatening.

She was in her late twenties or early thirties, plumpish, with short, sensible brown hair and a friendly smile. She was wearing an oversized, slightly grubby beige V-neck sweater which looked as if it might belong to her husband, pale blue jeans and sheepskin slippers. She seemed to have a very large bust owing, no doubt, to the fact that she was breast-feeding. Well, this was a feature about home births and Teresa's baby was only five months old.

The women shook hands. ‘Excuse my appearance,' Teresa said, eyeing up Nic's Whistles jacket and silk blouse. Nic made a mental note to dress down before she went on another
Mums
interview. She ought to have known better.

‘Please,' Nic said. ‘I know what it's like with a new baby. I spent most of the first year in my pyjamas because there didn't seem to be time to get dressed.'