Never Close Your Eyes (55 page)

Evie was glad that it was Russell sitting next to her on her left. He squeezed her hand. ‘Good to see you. You OK?' he whispered. She nodded, aware that her bottom lip was quivering.

It was at times like this, she reflected, that you really found out who your friends were. ‘He's been droning on about bloody Matron again,' Russell went on, nodding in Tristram's direction. ‘You haven't missed a thing.'

Evie managed a half-smile.

‘She made the most delicious cocoa,' she heard Tristram say. ‘It was almost worth being ill because she'd bring you a mug of the sweetest nectar in bed . . .'

Evie glanced around now that all heads were turned back to the front. Carol was in the middle row, wearing her peculiar Afghan coat. And to her surprise, she spotted Becca's dark head near the front. She'd said she probably wouldn't make it tonight.

Evie felt hurt. Becca was one friend that she thought she really could rely on but she was acting most peculiarly. She'd phoned Evie a few times to check that she was OK but said she'd been through some sort of a crisis herself and couldn't visit. Evie struggled to understand; what sort of crisis could possibly be bigger than the one she herself was going through? She tried to remind herself, though, that Becca was normally Ms Cool and Unflappable. If she said that she'd had a crisis then it must be bad.

Evie realised that she was only mildly interested in knowing what the problem was, though; she felt that she couldn't take any more trauma now, she'd rather listen to small talk. Interestingly, her novel had turned out to be a refuge in the past few weeks. She'd found that burying herself in writing had helped to take her mind off things. That was one reason why she'd been determined to come to the writing group tonight. She'd missed last month's and she hoped, once she'd got over the embarrassment of seeing everyone again, that coming back would act as a bit of a spur.

‘This month I thought we'd talk about characterisation,' Tristram said. ‘Writers often fall into the trap of making their characters either black or white, but in real life most people have light and shade. Characters are far more interesting if they're a mixture of good and bad.'

Pamela, in the front row, harrumphed. ‘Would you like to say something?' Tristram asked patiently.

‘No thank you.' She shook her stiff helmet of grey hair.

Russell leaned over and whispered in Evie's ear again. ‘She was thinking that she, unlike the rest of us, hasn't got any shade,' he sniggered, ‘but she obviously thought better of saying so.'

Evie reflected on her main characters: Cornelia, Spiculus, Marcellus and, increasingly, Gracchus. She'd started out wanting Marcellus, Cornelia's husband, to be the baddie who was really a goodie, and Spiculus the lover to be the goodie who was really a baddie. Then, after Neil's baby news, she'd had to change that. But Tristram was right, in real life, most people had a bit of both in them: sunshine and shadows. Maybe she'd been too simplistic.

Thinking of baddies and goodies, she was surprised by how supportive Neil was being over Freya. There's no doubt that he'd been worried sick when she went missing and Evie knew that he, like her, had been through a lot of soul-searching since about how little he'd understood or really listened to his daughter.

If one good thing had come out of all this it was that he was now putting aside time to do things with Freya on her own, away from Evie or Helen. They'd been to the cinema twice and out for a long walk. So that Michael wouldn't feel sidelined, he'd taken him to football on Saturday morning, too. If Helen was fed up, she wasn't showing it. Or at least, Neil wasn't letting on.

He and Evie had managed to have a couple of constructive talks which hadn't descended into rows and recriminations. It seemed they'd both realised that they had to put their own feelings aside and work together for Freya's sake. It was weird, though, Evie thought, that the change hadn't made things worse for her; she didn't long to be back in his arms. She was just so glad that he was doing his best for his daughter. If only it hadn't taken a crisis for it to happen, for them both to see sense.

‘What about physical description?' said Tristram. ‘How much do you like?'

Pamela's hand shot up.

‘Yes, Pamela?'

‘A lot,' she said. ‘When I'm reading I like to know exactly what each character looks like, the shape of their face, type of nose and so on. Otherwise if there are lots of characters you get confused.'

Tristram nodded. ‘Good point,' he said, ‘physical description helps to embed characters in the reader's mind.'

Pamela's back looked smug, Evie thought. She'd never realised backs could appear self-satisfied.

‘What does everyone else think?' Tristram asked.

There was silence for a few moments and then Angela, the mousy one, raised her hand. Evie was surprised. Angela rarely spoke, unless it was to point out that none of them was going to win the national creative writing competition.

‘I'm the opposite,' she said, pushing her large glasses up her nose.

‘Can you speak up?' Tristram asked, cupping a hand round an ear.

Angela repeated herself, this time raising her voice. She looked most uncomfortable. Evie guessed that Angela rarely spoke above a whisper. She was a very timid creature.

‘Interesting. Why's that now?' Tristram asked. ‘Can you stand up, please, so that we can all hear.'

Angela looked around hoping, perhaps, that someone would come to her rescue. Evie smiled at her encouragingly but she was too far away to notice.

‘I just think . . .' Angela stammered, ‘I just think that I prefer to leave things to the reader's imagination. I like
some
pointers myself – for instance, is the character dark or fair, tall or short and so on – but I don't want to know everything.' She looked down. ‘It's a personal thing, I suppose . . .'

‘Very valid point,' Tristram said. ‘How much should we leave to the reader's imagination? Very interesting.'

Evie thought that perhaps some of her physical descriptions were superfluous. She had mentioned Cornelia's ‘almond-shaped eyes' rather a lot. Not to mention the dangling cherry-red lips that Pamela had so objected to all those months ago. Maybe she'd remove the references to Cornelia's ‘pert breasts' as well. She'd never really been sure about them.

When the class was over Evie rose quickly, hoping that she could shoot out before anyone nabbed her.

‘Fancy a drink?' Russell whispered.

She shook her head. ‘I need to get back.' Neil was at home with Freya and Michael. He'd said he wasn't in a hurry, to take her time, but she didn't like to stay away from her children for too long these days.

‘How's your daughter?' Russell asked, putting on his dark navy-blue donkey jacket.

‘She's doing all right,' Evie replied. ‘Thanks for asking.'

She started to do up the toggles on her duffel coat. There was a tap on her back. Damn, she hadn't been quick enough. She swung round.

‘Can I have a word, dear?'

Bugger. It was Carol. Her face was inches from Evie's. She could see the pores on her nose and smell her musty Afghan coat.

‘I'm in rather a hurry . . .' Evie mumbled.

‘It won't take long.'

Russell thrust a piece of paper in Evie's hand as he rose to leave. ‘My mobile. If you fancy a drink, or just a chat on the phone. I'm a good listener.'

Evie was surprised but touched. She didn't know him very well; he didn't need to do that. ‘Thanks,' she said gratefully, stuffing the piece of paper in her coat pocket.

Before she knew it, Carol was clambering over the back of the chair next to hers and sitting down. ‘It's a bit warm in this coat,' she puffed, smoothing her straggly grey hair off her red face. She didn't take the Afghan off, though.

Evie noticed that Becca was hovering on her own at the end of her row of chairs, a tall, thin, isolated figure with that pale face. Evie crossed her fingers, hoping that she'd come to her rescue but she made no move. What was she up to?

‘I just need to know how you're doing, dear,' Carol said, patting Evie's arm.

Evie flinched. Carol was the last person she felt like talking to now. ‘All right. As well as can be expected,' she replied sullenly. She was still standing, she wasn't going to sit down. It was one thing for Russell to offer his support, but she didn't want to be cross-examined by Carol. She noticed that Tristram was picking up his pile of papers from the table at the front. Good. He'd ask them to leave the hall soon so that he could turn out the lights and lock up.

‘I hope your parents are being a help? Have they been up from Devon?' Carol persisted.

Evie felt hot suddenly and loosened the toggles on her coat. She swallowed. What the hell did Carol know about her parents anyway? And how did she know they lived in Devon? It was none of her business. ‘I've asked them not to come,' she said. ‘We need to be on our own at the moment.' She was aware that Carol was looking up at her closely but she refused to meet her eye.

‘Of course,' Carol said. She shuffled slightly in her seat. ‘I'm so glad you haven't sent Freya back to that dreadful school. She doesn't like it, you know. She's been very unhappy there.'

Evie's cheeks and neck burst into flame. She took a step back. ‘Really, I don't need you telling me—'

Carol reached out and touched her arm again. ‘Don't be angry, dear. I know you've been through so much. I only want to help.'

Evie relaxed slightly. Carol was shockingly nosy but she didn't mean any harm. She just said the first thing that came into her head. ‘It's kind of you,' Evie said. ‘I just can't talk about it at the moment.'

She picked up her bag and headed towards the door. She was aware that Carol and Becca were following. She felt like the bloody Pied Piper.

‘Goodnight!' Tristram called. ‘See you next month.'

It was spitting with rain outside. Evie pulled up her hood. Carol was right beside her.

‘I'm glad Neil's there for you,' she said. Her straggly hair was sticking to her head and rain was trickling down her nose. ‘But if he can't babysit, I can always look after Michael if you want to go out alone with Freya. You musn't leave her with that boyfriend of yours. She's not at all keen on him.'

Evie was gobsmacked. She couldn't even bring herself to reply.

‘Evie . . . ?' She turned with relief to Becca, who'd opened a black umbrella.

‘I'll be off,' Carol said.

The sooner the better, Evie thought.

‘I'm sorry I've been such a rubbish friend,' Becca said, once Carol was out of hearing.

Evie looked at her. There was something different about her; she couldn't put her finger on it.

‘It's been pretty difficult—' she started to say.

‘Can we talk?' Becca interrupted.

‘What, now? I have to get back.'

‘I'll come with you. I can get a taxi home. Please?'

There was an urgency in her voice that Evie couldn't ignore. ‘All right.'

She had no idea what this was about but her mind was racing; maybe Tom and Becca were splitting up, or she'd lost her job? It could be anything. Evie wasn't sure that she was the right shoulder to cry on; she'd got too many problems of her own. But she couldn't turn Becca away.

‘The car's round the corner,' Evie said. ‘Don't tell me anything now. Wait until we get home.'

It was half past ten by the time they walked through the door. Evie was grateful that Neil had got Michael to bed and he and Freya were in the sitting room watching repeats of
The Catherine Tate Show
.

Freya looked up and smiled when Evie poked her head round the door. ‘How was your meeting?' she asked. She looked so small and young, sitting there in her yellow spotty dressing gown. She seemed to have regressed, Evie reflected. She was like a little girl again, timid and unsure of herself. Evie had taken to tucking her up in bed at night and leaving the landing light on.

Freya had been seeing a counsellor, sometimes alone, sometimes with Evie and Neil. They'd all been told to take things slowly. They'd agreed that Freya wouldn't go back to the same school and Evie and Neil had made a few enquiries about alternatives. But she wouldn't go anywhere until after Easter. She simply wasn't ready. Luckily she had Lucy; she'd called round a lot and they'd once gone swimming together but that was all. Mostly Freya seemed content to stay at home, at her mother's or father's side.

‘Becca's here,' Evie told Neil. ‘She wants to have a chat. Would you mind . . . ?'

He rose. ‘C'mon, Freya. Time for bed.' She didn't even protest. He smiled at Evie. ‘I'll let myself out.'

She and Becca went into the kitchen and closed the door. Evie fetched a bottle of white wine from the fridge. She had a feeling that they were going to need it. ‘What's up?' she asked, filling two glasses.

Becca made a funny noise. Evie looked up and stared. She'd never seen her friend like this, ever. Her eyes were wide and wild; haunted.

‘I've got something to tell you,' she said. ‘It's going to change your opinion of me totally.'

Evie's legs felt weak. She didn't know if she could cope. She sat down shakily.

‘I'm not who you think I am,' said Becca. She spoke slowly and deliberately, in that precise way that she had. ‘My real name is Dawn Mackey. I had to change it because when I was twelve years old I killed my sister. I battered her to death with a hockey stick.'