Never Close Your Eyes (27 page)

By the time he'd finished, Becca had six needles in her body. She kept her eyes shut tight. If she looked she might panic and pull the needles out.

‘I'll come back in twenty minutes,' he said.

She breathed in and out deeply and tried to think pleasant thoughts but the conversation with Evie kept replaying itself in her brain. She tried to flick an imaginary off button but it didn't work. She was troubled. The problem was, she wasn't sure if Evie was right. What if Tom visited prostitutes? Becca would definitely want to know. And she'd definitely chuck him out. No question.

Supposing she told Nic and she did the same – chucked Alan out? Becca would have destroyed their marriage. She couldn't take on that responsibility, not on her own. There was always the possibility, of course, that rather than thanking her, Nic might hate Becca for it. There again, she might hate her for not telling her. Becca hoped Alan used condoms. God, imagine if Nic caught something. Becca would never forgive herself.

The awful thing was, if Nic somehow found out Becca would have to act all innocent, pretend that she knew nothing, that it was a complete shock. She was in a lose-lose situation. She wasn't used to dealing with those. If only she hadn't spotted Alan with that girl at all.

The needles weren't hurting any more but it was a relief when Ralph returned to take them out. Now for the enjoyable bit: the full body massage. Becca slipped off her bra and flipped over on to her tummy. She wriggled with pleasure as Tara started to knead into her neck, her back, her shoulders, her magic hands slippery with oil.

Tara was only little, small and slight, but she was so strong. She sought out the knots and pressed into them, working and moulding with her fingertips until Becca imagined the muscles were smoothed out, the ligaments soft and stretchy. It hurt, but it was pleasurable, too.

The scent of chamomile, lavender and sandalwood made her feel almost drunk. She allowed her body to sink into the couch; it was heavy enough to fall through the floor. She wondered vaguely what James and Alice were doing. Probably in bed by now. They wouldn't wait up; she'd told them she'd be late. Tom? He'd be in the pub somewhere with the other hacks. It was a mystery how they ever got any work done; it seemed to her that they were permanently half cut. Gary? Her muscles tensed. Tara sensed the change and applied more pressure.

What about Gary? Becca tried to picture him at home with his wife. Maybe they were having supper? But he was only real to her in the way that she'd seen him: sitting opposite her in the pub, listening carefully, looking at her intently. She couldn't imagine him existing in any other sphere.

They'd had no contact since the morning after they'd met, nine days ago now. There was an email, quite short, waiting for her when she arrived in the office. He said he'd very much enjoyed seeing her again and was glad that she looked so well. He reminded her that he'd like to read her book, what she'd written of it, anyway. He called it her ‘oeuvre', which made her laugh. She'd thought about it for a moment, then emailed back saying that she'd enjoyed seeing him, too. She decided not to send the book, though. It had seemed like a good idea when he'd first offered, but she'd had second thoughts. She didn't want him to get too close.

Since then she'd heard nothing. It was a relief, really. True, she'd checked her emails constantly, half hoping, half dreading to read his name. On balance, though, she decided no contact was good. What had she been thinking of, allowing herself to get all worked up like that? Now she was calm again, more normal. Better just to forget the whole thing.

‘There you go,' Tara said, gently lifting her hands from Becca's back.

She sighed, disappointed that it was over.

‘I'll leave you to get dressed,' Tara went on. ‘Take as long as you like.'

Becca lay there for a few minutes, unable to move. She felt deeply relaxed. She hated the thought of having to go back on the train. It would ruin everything. Maybe she'd grab a taxi.

Her BlackBerry pinged in her bag. She got up slowly, but she had a head-rush all the same. She waited, immobile, until the dizziness passed before putting her clothes on. She could hear the receptionist and Tara talking quietly outside. They were waiting for Becca to pay. She opened her bag, took out her BlackBerry and listened to the message.

‘Hi, Becca, it's Gary.'

Her heart pitter-pattered.

‘I wondered if you'd like to go for dinner sometime?'

Dinner? Her mouth felt dry.

‘Call me back when you have a moment.'

But how had he got her number? She didn't remember giving it to him.

‘Hope to hear from you soon.'

She stood still for a moment before putting the BlackBerry back in her bag. She realised that she wanted to see him again very much. She also wanted him to tell her everything: about the kids at the primary school they'd gone to, what had happened to them; about the neighbours; the man in the sweet shop who called her ‘pet' and ‘hinny'; that daft milkman who couldn't whistle in tune; his mam, his sisters. Her mam. Every last scrap of knowledge that he possessed.

She wasn't sure which she wanted more: to look in his brown eyes or to hear him talk about home. She just knew that the two were inextricably linked.

She waited until she'd paid and left the shop before returning his call.

Chapter Twenty-Four

There were crowds of people outside Sloane Square tube station and Evie had difficulty finding an empty spot. She stood undercover, in as prominent a position as possible, and looked out for Steve.

She wasn't sure which direction he'd be coming from; he hadn't told her. She shivered and clutched her coat around her. The weather was miserable: cold and damp. She was regretting wearing her pointy boots again. Would she never learn? At least she'd remembered the black lacy Agent Provocateur underwear this time. She hoped that Steve had chosen somewhere nearby to eat as she wouldn't be able to walk far.

She watched the crowds scurrying by and tried to imagine who everyone was, where they lived, what sort of jobs they had. A lot of men and women were in suits and clutching briefcases, obviously on their way home from work. But there were also a fair number of couples, all dressed up on a night out.

The women wore lipstick, had carefully blow-dried hair and left a trail of expensive perfume behind them. Their men had clean, newly shaven faces, smart-casual coats and the sort of soft leather loafers worn by City types or foreigners with plenty of money.

She felt a tingle of pleasure. She was on a night out, too. Could they tell? She checked her watch: 8.45 p.m. He was only fifteen minutes late. Problems with the buses, no doubt. She hoped that Michael would be getting ready for bed now. Should she phone? She decided not.

She thought of Becca and the strange phone call that they'd had earlier about Alan. She was sure that she'd given the right advice. Best not to interfere. She glanced across the road at Peter Jones. It was closed, of course, as were all the shops. But with the bars lit up and lights on all around the square, everything looked deliciously enticing.

She tried to picture Steve's face, his eyes, his lips. For some reason the details were vague. But she could remember his touch, the heat of him, his naked body against hers. She felt a rush of warmth around her neck, her face, between her legs. She shuffled uneasily from one foot to another. Please hurry up. The anticipation was killing her. She was going to explode.

She glanced left, towards the Royal Court Theatre, and saw a man who looked like him: tall and thin, with longish dark hair, a dark green jacket a bit like the one that he'd worn on Saturday night. But when he came closer she realised that he was nothing like Steve at all; this man had mean eyes and a slot for a mouth. She glanced away quickly.

He might have changed his mind and decided that he didn't fancy her. She recalled that kiss in the cab, the scorching intensity of it. Of course he fancied her.

She'd had to hustle him out so quickly on Sunday morning that they'd hardly spoken. ‘You have to go now,' she'd whispered in his ear, shaking him gently in bed beside her. ‘The children mustn't see you.' Reluctantly he'd got up, pulled on his clothes and she'd bundled him, bleary-eyed, downstairs. She'd checked Freya's and Michael's bedroom doors anxiously as they passed.

When they got to the hall, she'd gone on tiptoe, pulled his face towards hers and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

‘Call me,' she said, thrusting his jacket in his arms. ‘Thanks for last night.'

‘I will,' he mumbled back.

She laughed, remembering his sleep-soaked eyes. If she'd let him, he'd probably have stayed in bed all morning.

He'd made her wait all day. She had his number too, of course, but she wanted him to make the first move. She'd tried to sound nonchalant in front of the children when she answered the phone. They were all watching TV in the sitting room.

‘I'll go next door,' she told him, in a too-polite voice.

The kids were absorbed in the film. They didn't suspect a thing. She practically ran into the kitchen and closed the door.

‘Hey,' he said. She'd forgotten already how deep and sexy his voice was. ‘How are you?'

‘Fine,' she said shyly.

‘I miss you,' he said.

Her whole body was filled with air.

‘Can I see you tonight?' he went on.

She was a balloon, practically floating! But the balloon popped. ‘I can't – see you tonight,' she stuttered, remembering. ‘The children . . .'

‘Oh.' He sounded disappointed.

‘I can't leave them for two nights in a row, it's not fair.'

‘No problem,' he said. ‘I can't do tomorrow or Tuesday. What about Wednesday?'

They'd settled on Sloane Square because he said he could get the bus there from Clapham, where he lived. It wasn't as easy for her, but she said she was keen to get right away from home.

She checked her watch again: 9 p.m. Her chest tightened. She'd better ring him and see where he was. She found her mobile and called his number. His phone was switched off. She must have got the wrong number. She tried again. Same thing.

He'd probably got some last-minute celebrity interview or other and it was going on longer than expected. He'd appear any moment, smiling, full of apologies. ‘I'm so sorry . . .' She breathed deeply and pushed the backs of her knees out. It was a trick her father had taught her to do before exams; it was surprisingly calming. She was such a worrier. It was ridiculous. She wished she could sit down, though. Her feet were hurting.

‘Bit nippy.'

She turned around. An elderly man in a tweed cap and grey anorak was standing beside her, rubbing his hands.

‘I'm meetin' me daughter here,' he said, in a London accent. ‘I'm supposed to be takin' her out for a meal. Know anywhere nice?'

She shook her head. She didn't feel like talking. A moment later a plump, middle-aged woman in a pink and grey plaid coat appeared and kissed the old man on the cheek.

‘Bye,' he said. ‘Enjoy yer evenin'.'

The woman took his arm and shot Evie a curious look over her shoulder. She stamped her feet a few times to keep warm. Her stomach rumbled; she was so hungry. She fancied fish tonight. And lots of vegetables. She was in a vegetables mood. It was after nine now. He was nearly three-quarters of an hour late. He hadn't phoned. People passing by seemed to be looking at her strangely. Were they thinking she'd been stood up?

Stood up. It had never happened to her, not even when she was a teenager dating silly, unreliable boys. She'd been dumped a couple of times, but they'd always bothered to tell her.

He'd been so keen, desperate to see her. He'd made love to her so tenderly. Her fingers and toes were numb with cold. She tried his number one more time. Still switched off. She swayed slightly and reached for the wall behind to steady herself. She couldn't believe it, but what other explanation was there? If he'd had a problem he'd have phoned or texted.

She pulled her shoulders down and straightened up. There was a lump in her throat, like a boiled sweet that's got stuck. She tried to swallow. It hurt so much. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. She wouldn't cry, not yet.

She turned on her heels and walked back into the tube, down the steps and on to the dimly lit platform. There were crowds of people waiting. A woman standing beside her laughed. Evie turned her back. She was still doubtful. It made no sense. It was so cruel.

The train stopped and disgorged chattering passengers on to the platform. Evie elbowed her way into the carriage and sat down on the nearest seat. Zelda. She must speak to her. Zelda would know what to do. Evie stared past the heads through the windows at the blackness outside. The pain in her chest was intensifying. She could hardly breathe. She wanted Neil so badly. Her husband. The father of her children.