Never Close Your Eyes (38 page)

The lamplight was bright enough for her to make out certain features: the receding hair, the sideburns, that same black and red rucksack over his shoulder. She gasped. Her whole body was frozen, a block of ice.

Gary. What do you want of me?

She snapped the blinds shut and staggered back several paces into the middle of the room. So he knew where she lived. She wondered how long he'd been there. Maybe this wasn't the first time. Maybe he was going to knock. Then it would all be over.

‘Mu-ummy! Hurry up!' It was James's voice.

Becca was propelled back into the four walls of her study. She walked over to the laptop, logged off and closed it. Her fingers were trembling. She scrunched her hands into a fist, feeling the sharp, savaged nails digging into her palms. That helped to steady her nerves. She wondered if anyone would notice her ruined manicure. She could always file the nails down later.

As if any of that mattered now.

In other circumstances the scene that greeted her in the drawing room would have made her glow with pleasure: a giant, dark-green Christmas tree – eight feet high at least – was in front of the bay window that was obscured by thick, floor-length, red and gold curtains. There was a large, crackling, log-effect gas fire that made the room feel snug and warm despite the high ceiling.

Tom was on his hands and knees, making the final adjustments to the stand that held the tree in place. Becca noticed that he was wearing his Ralph Lauren jeans and the dark-green cashmere sweater that she'd given him last Christmas. It was a good combination. On his feet were his tartan Black Watch slippers.

However, there was an expanse of white back and a hint of builder's cleavage owing, no doubt, to the fact that the jeans were rather tight and he had to wear them below his paunch. He'd put on a bit more weight recently. She felt a surge of love. She used to chide him about his weight, try to force him on diets, but now, she realised, his chubbiness was part and parcel of what she loved about him. He seemed to be puffing and grunting a lot, but in a good-natured sort of way.

The children were taking decorations out of the two big gold boxes that they lived in when they weren't being used and turning them over in their hands.

‘This one's beautiful!' Alice said, holding up a see-through glass bauble that looked like an icicle.

‘Here's the reindeer!' James cried, examining the wooden toy that Becca remembered buying at a market stall in Vienna some years before.

Tom – or Monica – had put the King's College Christmas carols CD on. ‘Glory to the newborn king!' trilled an angelic-sounding boy. There was a smell of pine, as well as cinnamon and nutmeg from the winter displays that Becca had placed on each of the mahogany consoles. All in all, it was a scene of perfect family harmony.

Tom got up at last and grinned at Becca, flashing the dimples in both cheeks. His face was pink and glowing from the exertion. ‘What do you think?' he said, standing back to admire his handiwork. ‘Is it straight?'

She eyed the tree critically. ‘I think it might need to go just a little further to the left.'

He crouched again, uncomplaining, beneath the prickly branches. ‘Can you push it?' he asked, his voice sounding slightly strangled.

Becca obliged. The tree moved a fraction to the left.

‘There,' Tom said, pushing himself up to standing again with his hands. ‘Happy now?'

Becca nodded.

‘A glass of champagne for the lady?' He was in a very jolly mood.

‘Can we have hot chocolate?' Alice asked, jumping up and down on the spot.

Becca moved swiftly to grab the silver bauble from her hand. It was from an expensive Harrods set. ‘Careful, or you'll drop it.' Why was she bothering?

‘Champagne would be lovely,' she said, turning back to her husband and managing a smile. ‘Let's make a start on the decorations, kids, while Daddy gets the drinks.'

Becca needed the little step ladder from the library next door to put the angel on the top of the tree. It had a porcelain head and arms with a sheer white over gold silk skirt trimmed with marabou feathers, feather wings and a gold halo. She'd bought that in Vienna, too.

She wondered every year whether it was rather tacky, but it fulfilled a need: as a child she'd looked longingly at the exquisite angels on other children's real trees. Dawn had had to make do with a small, artificial tree and a miserable, plastic fairy that Mam had bought from the local tat store.

Mam . . . Mum . . . She flinched. What would she be doing now? And Jude. So long buried. Just rotting bones. Gary, everything that was happening: it was retribution of course. How vain, how arrogant she'd been to imagine that she could walk away and start all over again.

She felt giddy and wobbled on the ladder.

‘Steady on,' Tom said. ‘Are you all right?'

His voice brought her back to the present. She clutched on to the side of the ladder and stabilised herself. The dizziness faded. ‘I almost lost my balance,' she said. ‘Silly me.'

When she'd finished and Tom had turned the lights on, Alice gasped: ‘That's beautiful.' Her eyes were saucers.

Becca climbed down from the ladder and wheeled it back into the library. Then she stood beside Tom, one arm lightly round his waist, the other holding her champagne glass, staring. He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

‘Are you sure we want that manky old Father Christmas decoration?' he asked, pointing to a moth-eaten-looking cardboard and fabric figure near the bottom of the tree.

‘Yeah, it's rubbish,' James agreed. He moved to take it off.

‘No,' Becca cried. She was surprised by the shrillness in her voice. James stopped in his tracks.

‘You made it at nursery school, don't you remember?' she told him. ‘I love it. And the clay star over there with glitter on that Alice made when she was three. They're so precious, they're part of our family history.'

James looked at his mother incredulously. ‘Mum, they're just rubbish old—'

Tom's laugh curled around them like sweet-smelling cigar smoke. For a moment, Becca relaxed.

‘Mother says the dodgy old decorations should stay, so stay they shall,' he pronounced. ‘More champagne, darling?'

It was late by the time they got the children to sleep – nearly ten o'clock. Alice would be tired tomorrow but at least she could sleep in. Becca lay on the handmade, creamy wool and silk rug in front of the fire. She'd had a quick shower and changed into her white cotton flannel pull-ons, a soft grey long-sleeved, ribbed T-shirt and pink cashmere bedsocks.

She hadn't looked outside again. He'd knock if he wanted to. He'd do what he liked when he was ready. She was in his hands.

Tom, who was still wearing his jeans and jumper, came and lay on the carpet beside her. He propped himself up, like her, on his elbow. Their heads were just a few inches apart, but their bodies fanned out and away from each other. Some Mozart was playing quietly in the background.

He smiled. ‘This is nice. Peace at last.' He put a hand over hers. ‘Your hands are cold.'

She frowned.

‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing.'

‘No, go on. I can see something is.'

She sighed. ‘Do you think we should have gone to Normandy for Christmas?' The words came out in a rush. His hand was still there, warming hers.

‘Why? Do you?'

She shook her head. ‘Not really. Well, I just wondered if it would have been a good idea to get right away.'

It was his turn to frown. ‘Why didn't you say so if that's what you wanted?'

She took her hand away. She couldn't keep still. ‘I don't know. Well, Alice was so adamant that she wanted to be here and you didn't seem bothered and it's quite a lot of work to organise.'

He sat up and scratched his head. ‘It's not that I wasn't bothered, Becks. It's just that you didn't mention it so I thought you'd decided you'd rather be here, too. I wish you'd make up your mind.'

She glanced up at his face. He looked almost hurt. She was sorry. She didn't want to spoil the moment. It was lovely to have him here, all to herself, without the telly on and with no newspapers to distract him either. She should savour it.

She sat up, too, and shuffled over to his side, her legs crossed, resting her head on his shoulder.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I didn't mean to sound dissatisfied. I'm happy we're spending Christmas in London. I've just had such a lot on at work recently, I think I'm worn out. I can't think straight.'

Tom put his arm around her waist and stroked her side. The cotton T-shirt she was wearing felt soft and soothing against her skin. His hand moved up under her armpit to the area where her bra would normally be. He seemed to be searching for the strap.

Finding none, she felt his body tense a little in recognition. His fingers snaked around under her armpit to her breast which was indeed naked under the T-shirt. The rest of his body was still but his breath became heavier. He found the nipple and began twisting it tentatively between his fingers.

Becca's head was still on his shoulder, one hand on his knee, the other on her own in front of her. She allowed his hand to roam for a moment, enjoying his enjoyment, feeling his body heat up like a radiator.

At last he turned and looked into her eyes. His own were so full of passion and longing that she wanted to cry.

She hated herself for having pick-picked at their relationship like a child with a scab. For having spent years examining his faults like a forensic scientist, turning them over and over, exploring them from every possible angle, without ever stopping to think about all the things that were wonderful about him.

Maybe she'd stopped herself from loving him fully because, after all, love was another emotion and she'd learned to keep these under control. And now here she was about to lose him.

She knelt up, wrapped her hands around his dear, curly head and gently pulled his mouth on to hers. Their tongues performed a sort of dance, like a swans' courtship ritual, moving this way and that, in and out, in perfect synchrony.

She broke off suddenly: ‘Monica,' she said, glancing towards the open door.

He got up swiftly and closed the door, turning off the table lamp on his way back so that the room was illuminated solely by the fire and the Christmas-tree lights. She raised her arms above her head while he removed her top. Then he took off his own, but she made him wait for her to unbuckle his belt and pull off his jeans.

She kissed the very tip of his penis and took him in her mouth, taking pleasure in his sighs of bliss.

‘I love you, Becks,' he whispered.

She stopped what she was doing for a moment. When was the last time she'd said it?

‘I love you so much, too.'

Chapter Thirty-Five

Nic looked terrible when she came through the door with Alan. Her face was ghostly white, her clothes twisted and crumpled, her shoulders bent, and there was dried blood on her lips, perhaps where the braces had rubbed. But Evie thought she noticed something else, too, something that she hadn't seen before: a strange calm.

She hugged Nic. ‘Thank God you're OK.'

Nic's arms hung limply at her side. ‘Thank you.'

She took a step back, her blond head bowed. She couldn't bear to catch Evie's eye. ‘And thank you for looking after Dominic.' She glanced behind Evie, searching for him. ‘Where is he?'

‘Still asleep,' Evie replied. ‘I haven't heard a peep from him.' It wasn't so surprising. It was still only 8 a.m.

Nic nodded. ‘That's good. Thank goodness.'

‘He'll find out,' Alan said sharply. ‘You won't be able to hide it from him.'

Evie winced.

‘I know,' Nic said wearily. ‘I'd like to tell him in my own time, that's all.'

They sat, the three of them, sipping tea by the Christmas tree in the warm television room downstairs, the room where Evie and Steve had sat on the night of that famous party. There was a strong smell of pine coming from the tree, which was rather sparse. And there were too many red and gold decorations at the top and not enough at the bottom. She remembered Nic saying that she'd left it all to Alan. Clearly he didn't have Nic's artistic touch.

Brightly coloured Christmas cards were arranged higgledy-piggledy on every available surface. They knew lots of people. Alan got up to make a phone call about the car – which had been towed to a nearby garage – leaving the two women alone.

‘Evie?' said Nic, taking a deep breath. She was still in her party clothes from the night before, with a grey cardigan round her shoulders which Alan must have brought with him to the police station. She had no make-up on now, though, just a bit of smudged mascara round her eyes. She was hunched over and her thin little legs in opaque black tights were crossed. She looked fragile and old.