Never Close Your Eyes (61 page)

He must have followed her gaze. ‘Would you like some?' he asked, meaning the bluebells. ‘I've got masses in the back.'

‘Thank you,' she replied.

He didn't move. She noticed that his Adam's apple was quite prominent. His chin was squareish and there were beads of sweat on his upper lip. He cleared his throat. ‘I thought I'd have the place decorated,' he said.

‘Good idea.'

There was an awkward silence.

‘I might be getting a lodger.' He scratched his head. ‘Just for a month or two.'

‘Ah.' She was trying hard not to look again at his chest. Her eyes fell instead on the area just below his tummy button. There seemed to be a trail of light brown hair . . . She pulled herself together. She'd only half heard him. ‘A lodger?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Galina needs somewhere to stay and it seems . . .'

Galina the Ukrainian? Evie snapped out of her daydream and pursed her lips. ‘Sorry,' she said, ‘I'm in a hurry. I need to . . .'

She side-stepped the pile of books and rootled in her jeans pocket for her keys.

‘Evie?' he called but her back was already turned and she pretended not to hear.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Nic stayed close to Russell as they walked through the heavy oak door of the church hall and took their places beside Becca and Evie in the back row. She was aware of an uncomfortable hush as people turned and looked at her for a moment or two longer than necessary, and then spun back to the front.

She caught Carol's eye and was surprised, in a way, to receive a sympathetic sort of smile. Nic hadn't known how Carol would react, given the extraordinary news that she was, in fact, Evie's mother and Freya's grandmother. Carol might have been angry with Nic, like Evie.

Nic was momentarily overcome by the feeling that she'd stepped out of a spaceship into an alien body; that she was entering a new and unknown landscape. She swayed slightly in her chair. Russell, on her right, must have sensed it; he turned and looked at her, raising his black eyebrows.

‘You OK?'

She nodded. The soles of her feet were touching solid ground again.

‘Good to see you
all
here,' Tristram said, puffing out his chest and smoothing down his red silk tie. He emphasised the ‘all'. His words were weighty with meaning. Nic felt it; she knew that everyone in the room did, too.

‘How are we doing with our manuscripts?' he asked. ‘Not long till the deadline.' He peered over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses and grinned. ‘Adding the finishing touches now, are we?'

There was a collective groan.

‘Well, I've finished,' said a shrill voice at the front. It was Pamela of course.

There was another groan.

‘“Art is never finished, only abandoned.” Leonardo Da Vinci.'

Nic jumped. It was Russell, next to her. His voice was very loud. Lately, she'd found that she couldn't stand loud noises.

‘Very good,' said Tristram. ‘I think that's true, don't you? You could go on polishing and making changes for ever but there comes a point when you just think: enough. Imperfect as it is, it's time to lay it to rest.'

Pamela was silent. She wouldn't like that, Nic thought. She, no doubt, reckoned that her work
was
perfect.

‘This evening I thought we'd talk about dialogue,' said Tristram. He picked up a book from the table in front of him and started leafing through. ‘I have a book here about writing by the author Jane Wenham-Jones. She says: “The art of writing good dialogue lies in capturing the essence of what people say in real situations without necessarily including all the detail.”'

He scanned down the page. ‘She goes on:

Make sure your characters are not droning on about what they had for breakfast, to fill in the time before the next piece of action, but are actually telling us something we didn't previously know . . . Also, try to avoid long chunks of speech by the same person without some respite . . . I find it very helpful to not only hear my imaginary characters in my head when I'm writing dialogue, but to actually visualise them and see what they are doing. This also helps to prevent one from stating the obvious . . .

‘Interesting,' Tristram went on. ‘Now, I'd like a brave volunteer to read out a passage of their dialogue.'

There was a deathly silence.

‘Come on,' said Tristram. ‘Don't be shy.'

Jonathan, sitting two rows in front of Nic, raised his hand.

Nic perked up. Jonathan was the one who'd spent years abroad teaching English as a Foreign Language and was writing a novel about a young man's sexual adventures.

‘Excellent,' said Tristram. ‘Stand up please, so we can all hear.'

Jonathan rose to his feet, a wodge of papers in his hand, swept his blond hair off his face and twiddled his moustache in that way that he had.

‘Let me see,' he said, leafing through his papers. ‘Ye-es. This'll do. A bit of background: Ralph, my main protagonist, is giving a lift to Pilar, the beautiful Spanish girl that he met in a bar. Here goes . . .'

Jonathan cleared his throat and started to read: ‘“Ralph looked around him. ‘Oh bugger! The car has broken down and the next town is miles away.'

‘“‘Oh no. I can feel a panic attack coming on,' said Pilar. ‘What are we going to do?'

‘“‘I can think of plenty of things,' Ralph said, winking . . .”'

There was a noise at the front of the class. It was Pamela shuffling in her seat, her chair legs squeaking. She usually had an urgent call of nature when Jonathan started to read.

He looked up. ‘Sorry,' he grinned. ‘It gets a bit steamy in places.'

‘In places?' Pamela snapped. ‘It seems to me that it's pornography all the way through.'

Tristram glared at her over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘Please,' he said. ‘Let Jonathan finish.'

Jonathan looked down at the page again: ‘“‘. . . like take off your bra for starters. You've got the most beautiful pair of breasts.'

‘“‘I don't think my mother would approve,' said Pilar. ‘She's warned me about men like you. Well, go on then, kiss me, kiss me hard. Hurry before I change my mind.'”'

Russell nudged Nic in the ribs. She giggled, she couldn't help it. She put her hand over her mouth and stared hard at her feet.

‘Have you finished?' Tristram asked politely.

Nic marvelled at his sangfroid. She glanced at Evie, sitting next to her on her left and she, too, appeared to be shaking with mirth.

‘Thank you, Jonathan,' Tristram went on. ‘Now, who'd like to comment?'

Carol raised her hand. ‘I don't think someone would say: “I'm going to have a panic attack,” I think they'd just have it,' she said, waving her arms around in an exaggerated fashion to demonstrate.

Several people tittered.

‘Right,' said Tristram. ‘Well spotted. She'd be more likely to clutch her throat or wave her arms around or something. Anything else?'

‘Yes,' said Carol. ‘In my experience men don't ask if they can take off your bra, they just get on with it.' She hooted with laughter.

‘Honestly,' Pamela tutted. ‘How vulgar—'

‘No, I'm with Carol again,' Tristram interrupted. ‘How else could Jonathan have done it?'

Russell stood up. ‘How about this: “‘I can think of plenty of things to do,' said Ralph, fumbling with the fastening of her bra, which pinged open with a gratifying pop.”'

Nic snorted.

‘What?' said Russell, looking down at her innocently.

‘Bras don't pop open – at least mine don't.' Nic looked at Becca and Evie. ‘Have you ever had a bra that pops open? Maybe you can get them with poppers but I've never seen them.'

Several members of the class turned to each other to discuss the matter. The volume in the hall rose.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' Tristram said loudly. ‘We're not here to discuss the finer points of corsetry.' He paused. ‘Though I'm sure the other gentlemen here will agree that it's a most entrancing subject. But no, we're here to talk about dialogue, remember? Now, does anyone else have anything to say about Jonathan's example?'

Nic was in an excellent mood by the end of the meeting; she hadn't laughed so much in months. She turned to Evie and Becca. ‘Well, that was entertaining.'

Evie frowned and ran her hands through her shoulder-length fair hair, which looked as if it had just been washed and straightened. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?' she asked.

Nic was startled. ‘I wasn't. I mean, like what?' Was Evie trying to pick a fight?

Evie leaned forward. ‘Does my hair look funny?' She seemed deadly serious.

‘No.' Nic didn't know what she was talking about.

‘It looks nice,' Becca chipped in. ‘Have you done something to it?'

Various people had started to leave the hall. Russell, who was at the end of the row, got up. ‘I need a word with Tristram. I'll just be a moment . . .'

‘I washed it before I came out,' Evie explained. ‘Only by mistake I used hair-removal cream instead of conditioner.'

‘What?' Nic squeaked. She put her hands over her mouth. ‘You didn't?'

Evie nodded. ‘I was in a hurry and I reached for what I thought was this new conditioner I'd just bought, only it had the same coloured top as my Veet.'

‘Ohmigod,' said Becca. She started rootling in Evie's hair like a monkey searching for nits. ‘I can't see any bald patches. You might be all right.'

Evie sat quite still while Becca continued to burrow. ‘Are you sure?'

‘I think so,' Becca replied. ‘I think you've got away with it.'

‘Thank God,' Evie sighed. ‘I rinsed it really carefully as soon as I realised. I probably had the longest shower I've ever had in my life. I was petrified I'd end up looking like a Mexican Hairless Dog.'

‘A Mexican Hairless Dog? What's that?' said Nic, trying to keep a straight face.

‘They're completely bald, with just a few tufts of hair sticking up on top like a coconut.'

‘That's awful,' Nic replied. She was having difficulty controlling her mirth. ‘How long was the Veet on for?'

Evie thought for a moment. ‘Only a few minutes, I reckon. Two or three?' She nudged Nic in the ribs. ‘Stop laughing at me. This is a serious matter. I don't want to go bald.'

‘Certainly not,' Nic replied. ‘But I've got some nice hats if you want to borrow one.'

Being at the back of the hall, Nic had hoped that she'd be able to sneak out quickly without speaking to any of the others. But as she rose to leave, she realised that Tristram was scooting towards her, calling her name.

She felt suddenly hot. She was glad that Becca and Evie were still with her. Tristram reached her side and leaned over.

‘I just wanted to offer my condolences,' he said in a low voice, squeezing her arm. ‘The press can be animals but well done for coming tonight. Keep your chin up.'

Nic was touched. A lump appeared in her throat. ‘Thank you.'

Tristram stood up straight, rubbing his back as if it hurt, and pulled a face. ‘How's the writing coming on?' His voice was louder now. ‘I hope you're getting cracking. Not long to go.'

Nic grimaced. ‘To be honest, I'm only about three-quarters of the way through. I'll never finish in time.'

‘Nonsense,' Tristram replied. ‘Knuckle down and you'll do it, even if you have to write two or three thousand words a day right up till the last moment. It'll be tough but you're quite capable of it. You know how much I admire your writing. You'll kick yourself if you let this opportunity go by.'

He was right, she thought. It would be a mistake to throw in the towel now that she'd got this far. Tristram moved away to talk to another class member.

‘Drink anyone?' Russell asked. He was standing at the end of the row.

Nic, Evie and Becca all shook their heads.

‘Evie, dear!'

Nic heard Evie groan. Carol was clambering over the chairs in front, swinging a basket full of things; clearly she couldn't be bothered to wait for the people at the ends of the rows to move. Her shoulder-length grey hair looked awfully straggly and she was huffing and puffing. She was still wearing her big Afghan coat even though it was April.

‘Evie, can I have a word?'

There was no way Evie could avoid her. ‘What is it?' she growled.

Nic winced.

Carol was in the row in front now; there was just a chair between them, acting as a sort of barrier. She put her basket on the seat and scrabbled for something. At last she pulled out a thin wad of papers, slightly curling at the edges. The top sheet had black smudges on it.