Never Close Your Eyes (43 page)

He'd been ringing her every day, desperate to come round, but she'd insisted that she needed to get on with her writing. Really she just wanted to punish him, to make him realise that what he'd done was completely out of order. But while she'd been tapping away at the keyboard, an odd thing had happened: she'd found herself going off Spiculus. It was as if the book was writing itself.

She'd decided that Spiculus was boring. He was very sexy, but that was all there was to him. Unless he was fighting in the Coliseum – or shagging Cornelia, which he was very good at – he was vacuous and, frankly, full of crap. A bit like Steve, really. Steve was a great lover, no doubt about it, but he didn't seem to be a particularly successful journalist. He had an awful lot of time on his hands. Evie couldn't help wondering how he managed to make ends meet.

Meanwhile, she'd found herself becoming increasingly interested in a character called Gracchus. He was a wise older man, a friend of Cornelia's father, who had become a bit of a confidant. She found herself pouring her heart out to him and he was a really good listener. Plus, he made her laugh.

Evie could almost imagine Cornelia falling in love with him instead, but she banished the thought. Cornelia had known Gracchus for years, he was almost like a father figure. She mustn't let the plot run away with itself.

The argument about men's heights seemed to have ground to a halt. ‘Shall I go on?' she asked wearily.

Tristram nodded. ‘Just to the end of the page please, then we're going to talk about choosing the perfect word.'

Pamela put her hand up.

‘Yes, Pamela?' Tristram said wearily.

‘I've just finished writing a passage which, though I say so myself, is rather good on the descriptive front,' she said, patting her stiff grey hair. ‘Perhaps you might like to hear it before we begin our discussion.'

Evie was relieved to take her place between Becca and Nic again. She smiled at Nic, who winked in return. She was so brave, Evie thought. She hadn't really expected Nic to make it to the January meeting at all.

She'd been to court just a few days after the New Year and received an eighteen-month driving ban and a five-hundred-pound fine, because it was a first offence. She'd told Evie that she'd apologised unreservedly to the magistrates, who'd warned that the local newspaper were attending.

There was, indeed, a story in the
Richmond and Twickenham Times
. The headline – ‘Wealthy Accountant's Wife on Drink-Drive Charge' – had brought tears to Evie's eyes, so she dreaded to think what it must have done to Nic. But Nic said later that she'd gone so low already it wasn't as big a blow as she might have expected. She felt desperately sorry for Dominic and Alan, though. What a lousy Christmas present. She said she didn't know how she could ever make it up to them.

Nic had told Evie over coffee one morning that the pair of them had been wary and mistrustful when she explained that she'd found out she had an illness, alcoholism, and was determined to get better. But for the first time in years she was waking up in the morning feeling happy – well, almost happy – after another booze-free twenty-four hours. She told Evie that she was going to succeed in kicking the habit for their sakes. And so far she was managing, though it was still very early days.

No one in the creative writing group had mentioned the article when Nic arrived, but there had been a few funny looks. Evie knew Nic had noticed them.

Pamela finished reading her passage and sat down. She exuded pleasure in her own brilliance. It was a piece about a man having an argument with his wife.

‘Well, I thought it was verbose,' Carol said when Pamela had finished. ‘Far too many adjectives and adverbs.' She and Pamela were no longer even pretending to get along; it was all-out war.

‘What do you mean?' Pamela snapped.

‘For example,' Carol went on, ‘you said something like “‘What do you mean by that?' he said belligerently.” I think “belligerently” is “Show Don't Tell”.'

‘No it's not.' Pamela replied. ‘It's a perfect word to use in the circumstances. “Belligerent” sounds cross and grumpy. It's very descriptive.' She turned around and gave Carol, sitting just behind Evie, a withering look.

Tristram cleared his throat. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘this is a very good example of what I'm going to talk about. Can anyone think of a way of rewriting that line that would
convey
the belligerence whilst letting the character and action speak for themselves?'

There was silence. Evie fidgeted in her chair. She hated moments like this, when they were asked to correct someone else's writing. Not that Pamela had a problem with it, so long as it wasn't
her
writing they were trashing.

At last Russell raised a hand. Evie was rather relieved that the goatee had gone. ‘It's taken me a few moments to think about it,' he said, ‘but I think I've got there. I've written something down. How's this?'

He cleared his throat and read from a notepad: ‘“‘What the bloody hell do you mean by that?' He took a step forward, his hands coiled into fists.”'

Tristram beamed. ‘Excellent, excellent,' he said. ‘This is just what I mean. Let your characters' actions and words speak for themselves. They don't need you, the author, to interpret their feelings to the reader; they're more than capable of getting ideas across on their own.'

Pamela stood up. Her body was shaking. Even from behind you could tell that she was incandescent with rage.

‘I don't agree at all,' she boomed. ‘I'd never use disgusting swear words to convey an emotion. It's lazy and unforgivable.'

Tristram fiddled with the gold chain around his neck on which his glasses were dangling. ‘No one's suggesting that you have to use swear words, Pamela,' he sighed. ‘That was just an example of what you might do to convey your meaning. Similarly, we should all try to avoid using the word for an emotion to get across how our characters are feeling. So, for instance, instead of saying, “He was elated”, find a way to show this to your readers through dialogue, actions and physical sensations. Can anyone think of a few ways to convey elation?'

When the meeting was over, Evie, Nic and Becca picked up their bags and left the hall in a hurry.

‘Quick,' whispered Evie, ‘we have to get away from Pamela or she'll collar us and start slagging off Carol. Then Carol will wade in and there'll be an almighty row. I couldn't stand it.'

She took them each by the arm and whisked them into a side street out of sight. She was surprised to discover that Russell had scarpered even more swiftly and was unlocking his bike just a few yards up the road.

‘So what juicy stories have you got this month?' Evie called when she was certain that no one was following them.

Russell raised his dark eyebrows heavenward. ‘You're such gossips,' he said. ‘I really can't reveal any more confidential information.'

The three women waited. Russell pulled his collar up and looked left and right. ‘But there was a woman who came in for a routine check-up,' he said,
sotto voce
. ‘She had genital warts the size of miniature cauliflowers.' He paused, looking at each of the women in turn. The air hung heavily between them. ‘And she had no idea!' he added with a flourish.

Evie put her hands over her mouth. ‘The size of miniature cauliflowers?' she gasped. ‘She must have known. Surely? It's not possible.'

Russell shook his head. ‘Nope, gospel truth. When I asked, as delicately as I could of course, if she was aware of her problem she looked appalled. She couldn't have looked down there for a very long time.'

‘But her boyfriend – partner?' Nic squealed. He must have . . . ?'

Russell put his helmet on. ‘Thought it was quite normal. Probably has cauliflowers himself. They weren't particularly . . . well, you know. Put it this way, the lights were on but there was no one at home.'

The women stood quite still while they digested the information.

‘Well,' Russell said at last, swinging a leg over the crossbar, ‘must be off. Good luck with the writing and see you next month!' He vanished round the corner.

Evie turned to her friends and shook her head. ‘I can't believe you could have something like that and not
know
,' she muttered. ‘I just can't believe it.'

She glanced at Becca, who was looking up and down the alleyway as if searching for someone or something.

‘Becks?' Evie said, ‘it's all right, the others'll have gone by now. We're on our own. Anyone for a drink – a soft drink?' she added quickly. ‘Do you realise it's five years since we went on the writing course? We should celebrate.'

Nic looked surprised. She was wearing a red wollen coat with a big fur collar that emphasised her daintiness. She had some amazing clothes. ‘God yes, I suppose it is,' she said. ‘It was around the end of January, wasn't it? I remember glancing around the room during that first session and realising that you two were the only sane ones there.'

Becca looked down at the two smaller women. ‘Do you remember that mad man – Peter or David or something – who was writing the book about a teenage girl?'

Evie snorted. ‘Yes, and it was supposed to be set in the modern day and he made her say things like: “Golly gosh, Pater, my stockings have laddered.”'

Nic giggled. ‘He was single and clearly didn't have a clue how kids talk. Why on earth was he writing about a teenage girl in the first place, for heaven's sake?'

‘And what about that bonkers woman writing an incomprehensible book about her childhood in Turkmenistan?' Becca grinned. ‘And horrible fat Louise who dumped us via email a few weeks later because she obviously decided we weren't intellectual enough.'

Evie felt laughter gurgling in her throat. ‘The cheek of it! Who did she think she was? George Eliot or something?'

‘George Eliot and Marilyn Monroe rolled into one.' Nic grinned, showing off her braces. ‘Do you remember the bustier at dinner?'

Evie shuddered. ‘Ooh yes, the bustier,' she whispered.

Becca pulled up the collar on her dark grey coat. ‘I can't come for a drink tonight,' she said suddenly. ‘I must get home. I'm off to Nashville first thing tomorrow. Sorry.'

Evie frowned. ‘This isn't like you, Mrs Intrepid “I've travelled the world ten times over and jet lag is for wimps.”'

Becca started walking back towards the main road. ‘Yes, well, I don't feel very intrepid.' You could see the breath coming out of her mouth, it was so cold. ‘All I want to do right now is get home, lock all the doors and windows, close the curtains and pull the duvet over my head.'

‘Are you all right?' Evie asked, puzzled.

‘Of course I am,' Becca replied.

Becca left Nic and Evie at the street corner. They were heading in the opposite direction, Evie towards the bus stop and Nic to her car.

Becca found herself looking this way and that, right and left. Several times she glanced over her shoulder. She'd seriously considered getting a taxi but that would have been foolish; it was only a seven- or eight-minute walk.

Her high heels clacked along the pavement. She wished they wouldn't make so much noise, drawing attention to her. She dug her hands in her pockets and tried to focus on her breathing. This was ridiculous; she was turning into a nervous wreck.

It wasn't surprising. She tried to imagine Evie's and Nic's faces if they found out. They'd hate her, hate what she'd done and hate the mountain of lies. There was no way that Becca could explain or make it right; there'd be no forgiveness.

She tried to imagine Alice and James. The shock on their little faces. How could they possibly understand? Tom and Alice and James, a solid little unit, and her, the broken satellite, spinning ever further away until it was out of sight. She felt a cry bubble in her throat, threatening to burst out. She dug her bitten nails in the palms of her hands and the pain forced it down.

She rounded the corner at King Street and made her way towards the Green. In one way this was worse, because she'd left the main road and there were no other people about. But she felt her spirits lift slightly when she spotted the comforting, dark-blue iron railings ahead: her terrace of houses. She was nearly home. She quickened her pace. She was almost running.

‘What's the hurry?'

Becca jumped so high and so fast that her hair, her skin and the flesh beneath seemed to detach from her bones. Only her teeth were left clinging to her jaw, jangling in her mouth. The eyes in their sockets had come loose, too.

She spun around. Gary was standing right behind her. Where had he come from? ‘What are you doing?' she hissed. ‘Why are you following me?'

Gary moved towards her, his arms open. Instinctively she hopped back several paces. He frowned. ‘I need to see you,' he said. ‘You cancelled the eighth. It's been too long.'

It was true that she'd managed to get out of the eighth. She'd pleaded work. He'd seemed to accept it. She hadn't mentioned seeing him through the study window on Christmas Eve.

‘I said I'd call when I get back from the States,' she whispered. ‘You mustn't come here. It's too dangerous. Tom and—'

‘I'm in love with you, Dawn,' Gary interrupted. She flinched. He put his hands in his trouser pockets. He was standing very upright, his feet planted firmly on the ground. ‘Don't you see? I've always loved you, ever since primary school. I don't care about Tom or Michelle. I only care about us.'

He stepped forward and put his arms around her. This time she didn't resist. She pressed her face against his black leather jacket and sobbed. Her whole body felt weak and powerless; she was made of wet clay. She needed him to support her or she'd dribble on to the floor.