Never Close Your Eyes (37 page)

He helped her back outside and a policeman produced a breathalyser. Nic's stomach lurched. She took a step forward, wanting to bolt. She'd never make it. They'd catch her. Besides, her legs weren't strong enough and she thought she still had her high-heeled gold sandals on, though she couldn't be sure.

‘We need you to blow into this – one, long, continuous breath,' the officer said.

Nic blew, meek as a child. She wasn't going anywhere. The light went straight from green to red. She had most definitely failed the test. She didn't care any more.

‘We're going to take you to Walworth police station,' a WPC said firmly. ‘I'd like you to get into the back of the car, behind the passenger seat. Can you manage that?'

‘What about my car?' Nic's voice sounded very far away.

‘Don't worry about that, we'll take care of it.'

Nic swallowed. She thought they'd put her in handcuffs. Isn't that what they normally did with criminals like her? She was relieved they didn't. Maybe they thought she was docile enough not to need them.

‘How long will I be at the police station?' she asked, clambering in.

‘As long as it takes to go through the procedures.'

‘I'm so sorry.' She hung her head. ‘I'm just so sorry.'

She was aware of passers-by watching as they drove off, judging her. This would be something to tell their friends and neighbours. She didn't feel drunk any more. The shock must have sobered her up. She was able to walk into the police station unaided.

‘Do you understand why you're here – because you've had a positive breath test?' the duty sergeant asked.

‘Yes.' She gave him her name and address.

They went through the legal procedures. She felt as though she were in a dream. A solicitor was present when she repeated the breath test. She was three times over the limit and they charged her with drink driving straightaway.

‘Can I go home now?' she said, when they'd taken all the details.

‘Not till the doctor's seen you and says you're fit to be released.'

Nic made no protest when they removed her watch and jewellery, her belt and hair tie, and led her to the cell. It was just as she'd imagined: cold, basic, too bright. But it was no more than she deserved.

‘My husband and son,' she said, panicky. ‘They'll be so worried. Will someone tell them where I am?'

‘We'll give your husband a call,' the police officer said. ‘With luck you'll be out by early morning.'

‘Thank you,' she said, grateful for his gentle manner. She hated herself enough. She didn't need abuse.

She slept fitfully, aware that someone was checking up on her every fifteen minutes or so. Perhaps they thought she'd try to commit suicide. It wasn't a bad idea, actually. And all the time she was thinking: What on earth is Alan going to say? What will Dominic say? I am so ashamed.

Evie received the call around 10 p.m.

‘Evie? It's Alan.'

‘Hello,' she said, surprised. Alan never phoned her. ‘Get off!' She and Steve were on the sitting-room sofa together. He was nibbling her earlobe.

‘I beg your pardon?' Alan sounded anxious.

‘I'm sorry.' Steve was tweaking her nipple now, deliberately trying to distract her. She managed to stifle a giggle.

‘I just had a call from Walworth police station,' Alan went on. ‘Nic's been in an accident.'

‘Oh God.' Evie sat bolt upright, pushing Steve into the corner. ‘Is she all right?'

‘Just a few cuts and bruises by the sound of things,' Alan sighed. ‘Evie, she was drunk. She crashed my car into a tree. It's a miracle she didn't kill anyone – or herself.'

Evie put her head in the hand that wasn't holding the phone and rubbed her eyes. ‘I knew she'd been drinking a lot. I feel so bad . . .' Her voice trailed off.

‘It's not your fault,' Alan interrupted. ‘I've spoken to her about her drinking time and again but she wouldn't listen.'

Evie glared at Steve, who got the message and skulked out of the room. She couldn't have a proper conversation with him there.

‘Where is she now?' She had so many questions.

‘Locked up – can you believe it?' There was a note of disgust in Alan's voice. Evie cringed. For a second, she thought she knew how Nic must feel when she was drunk. She wasn't sure that Alan's judgemental attitude would do much to help.

‘How long for?' Evie asked.

‘Overnight, or until four or five a.m. They have to wait until she's sobered up enough to be examined by a doctor. Apparently she was way over the limit.'

‘Where did it happen?'

‘Clapham Common. She was on her way to a party. I should never have let her go. We'd had a row about her drinking and she stormed off. I'm afraid I didn't try to stop her. I, well, I'd just had enough I suppose.'

Evie swallowed. She couldn't imagine her friend in a police cell. Nic would feel so frightened – and alone.

‘What'll happen to her after that?'

‘She's been charged with drink driving and she'll have to go to court. They said they'd explain it all when I collect her. Apparently the car's a terrible mess.'

Evie grimaced. She couldn't care less about the stupid car. ‘What can I do to help?' She'd never liked Alan much but she wanted to be there for Nic.

‘Actually that's why I was calling.' Alan sounded relieved. ‘Do you think you could come over and look after Dominic while I go to the police station? I'm sorry to ask, right before Christmas. I've tried everyone else I can think of but they're all busy . . .'

Evie thought for a second. ‘Of course. I can ask Steve – he's, er, my boyfriend – to look after my kids. I'll be with you in about half an hour.'

‘Thank you.' Alan sounded really grateful. ‘I can give you the spare room. It's just that I need you to be here when Dominic wakes up.'

Evie felt dazed as she wandered into the kitchen to find Steve. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of red wine and an empty glass in front of him, listening to some sort of chat show on the radio. She noticed that he'd opened the expensive Châteauneuf-du-Pape that she'd been saving for a special occasion.

‘What's up?' he said, filling his glass. ‘Don't tell me, Nic's got pissed again? Well, that's a surprise. What a lush.'

Evie felt her face go hot. ‘Don't talk about Nic like that,' she spluttered. ‘She's got a problem. She needs help.'

‘I bet that boring old accountant husband of hers is upset.' Steve sniggered. Evie hated that snigger. He took a large slurp of wine. ‘It'll be in the local paper.' He rubbed his hands together and grinned. ‘He won't like that.'

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘What are you doing, Mummy?'

Becca looked up from her laptop and smiled. Alice was standing at the door in her blue and white checked pyjamas with the daisy on the pocket. Her fair curly hair, so often pulled back in bunches or a ponytail, was framing her face, which was still pink from the bath.

‘I'm writing my book,' Becca said. ‘Did Monica remember to wash your hair?'

Alice nodded. Monica, the au pair, had agreed to look after the children while Becca worked.

‘Come here,' she said, patting her knees.

Alice ran over and climbed on her mother's lap.

‘Shall I read you a little bit of the story?' Becca asked.

‘No, I'll read to you,' Alice said firmly. She was only six but you could tell she was very bright. She was always asking questions.

Becca smiled. ‘Go on then.'

Alice peered at the screen and began to read slowly. ‘“The children ran across the field following Scruffy . . .” Who's Scruffy, Mummy?'

‘He's the dog,' Becca explained patiently.

‘“It was getting dark,”' Alice went on. ‘“In the distance they could see Farmer Scrubs's barn. There was a light on. ‘I think we should go back,' H . . . Hed . . .”'

‘“Heidi”,' Becca said.

‘Heidi,' Alice repeated. ‘“. . . Heidi said. ‘Don't be silly,' Josh replied. ‘We need to see what Farmer Scrubs is up to.'”'

Alice leaned back. ‘What is he up to, Mummy? Is Farmer Scrubs a bad man?'

Becca laughed. ‘You'll have to wait and read the story when it's finished. Now go and help Daddy with the Christmas decorations. I'll be with you in five minutes.'

‘OK.' Alice hopped off her mother's lap and ran out of the study. Becca could hear her bumping down the steps on her bottom – she always did that – and thundering into the first-floor drawing room below. She made a big noise for a little girl.

Becca turned back to the screen and frowned. Farmer Scrubs
was
a bad man. Becoming increasingly so, in fact. It worried her a little that the story was taking a rather more sinister turn than she'd intended. She mustn't make it too frightening. It was a children's book, after all.

She put her thumb in her mouth and started to nibble on her manicured nail but stopped herself. Her weekly mani-pedis cost a fortune. She pushed the thumb further into her mouth, feeling for the rounded corner of the nail with her tongue. Then, quickly and deliberately, she brought her canine down and bit the corner right off. The lump of nail felt huge in her mouth. She grimaced – the clear varnish tasted bitter – and spat the nail into her other hand.

She stared down at the savaged nail that only a moment ago had been so hard, smooth and perfect. She ran her forefinger over the jagged, uneven edge. It pierced the skin slightly, which she liked. One by one, she bit little chunks off the edges of all her fingernails, crunched them up and swallowed them. Once she'd started she couldn't stop; it was addictive. She always used to chew her fingernails – back then. She'd forgotten how satisfying it was.

Alice didn't bite her nails. She was a happy, secure child. She loved her family so much. Becca had suggested that they spend Christmas at the Normandy farmhouse; it would have been a relief to get away. But Alice had been adamant. ‘I want to stay here with all my toys.'

‘But you'll have new toys for Christmas,' Becca argued.

But Alice wouldn't listen to reason. She'd frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I like it here,' she insisted. ‘It's cosier.'

But for how long? Becca shivered. She'd had a text from Gary the day after they'd had dinner in the pub in Kew and they'd agreed to meet again on 8 January. At least she had a couple of weeks' grace. Since then she'd heard nothing; with luck he was busy with his family. But every time her phone rang or an email plopped into her inbox her heart started hammering. This was no way to live but she could see no way out either.

Strange that she'd found herself using every spare moment she'd had since that dinner to get on with her book. It was a welcome distraction, she supposed, and also at the back of her mind, perhaps, was the thought that before too long she might be needing another career. She mustn't think about that, though. It was easier just to plough on, get stuck into her plot, lose herself in her characters. Work, work. She was like a little donkey, always working.

Something made her get up and walk to the window overlooking the street. The black Venetian blinds were closed. She separated them just a little and peeked out.

It was a clear, cold night. There were quite a few streetlamps around the green and she could make out several people walking across the middle of the flat grass, on their way to the pub or theatre, perhaps. They were well wrapped up.

She glanced over to the right and noticed a huddle of what looked like youngsters crouching on the grass under the trees. They were wearing a uniform of baggy trousers and hoodies. A number of them were smoking. She could see the glowing ends of cigarettes bobbing around in the darkness.

You often saw groups of teenagers on Richmond Green. They were too young to go to the pub; Becca supposed the Green must be one of the few places where they could hang out, and they did so in all weathers. Mostly they were no trouble but occasionally they'd become rowdy, a scuffle would break out and the police would turn up to move them on. Becca felt quite sorry for them. There should be youth clubs and things for them to go to.

She looked directly below her, on to the pavement beneath the window. Something caught her eye just across the road: a movement. There was a large tree with a thick trunk and branches that reached way up. She didn't want to but she felt compelled to stay fixed on the tree, waiting to see what it was that had attracted her attention. A fox, perhaps?

At last a shape half emerged from behind the trunk. It was clearly a man, dressed in some sort of dark jacket – leather probably. The collar seemed to be turned up against the cold. Becca remained stock still, scarcely breathing. After a few moments the figure stepped fully out into the clearing in front of the house, between two trees. He seemed to stare at the house for a few moments before looking up at her top-floor window.