Close My Eyes Read online

  ‘Harder than telling me my daughter’s stillbirth was a con? That a perfectly reputable doctor risked being sent to prison?’

  A couple of the mums sitting across the room glance over. Lucy looks desperate. ‘I don’t know why the doc—’

  ‘So what do you know?’ I say, struggling to keep my voice down. ‘Apart from everything you’ve already told me and the fact that my husband and I are relatively well off?’

  ‘Please don’t be angry.’ Lucy pushes her cup across the table. ‘I can’t say that Bernard and I weren’t hoping for a reward for this news when we saw about your husband’s success. I mean, to Bernard it isn’t right that Mary and Ronnie had so much with us having nothing. They haven’t even got children, while Bernard and me, we have four. And our youngest two are still living at home. I would have emailed you, but . . . but Bernard said you needed to see my face when I told you. That otherwise you might not believe me. But it’s true, Mrs Loxley. And no matter what you think, I’m not here for the money. I’m here to be true to Mary. I know it’s what she wanted. Else why would she have told me?’

  I stare into Lucy’s eyes. For a second I falter . . . Every instinct tells me she’s telling the truth. And yet she can’t be.

  ‘Tell me the final thing,’ I snarl. ‘Then we’ll see about a reward.’

  Lucy swallows. ‘It’s just this.’ She hesitates again. A fly crawls across the table between us.

  ‘Yes?’ I look up.

  ‘It’s your husband,’ Lucy says, her voice barely audible. ‘According to Mary, he knew. He knew what Dr Rodriguez was doing.’

  It’s the last straw. Shock sucks all the air out of me. I’m on my feet before I’ve even registered standing up.

  ‘Lies,’ I hiss. ‘Liar.’

  Moments later I’m outside, running down the road, desperate to get away.

  Desperate to get home.

  This was the day Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth happened. I was in the playground but I knew where there was a rip in the fence and when the teacher wasn’t looking I crawled under because there was a big conker on the other side but it was really belonging to us because it had fallen from the tree on our side. I didn’t think anyone would notice but they did before I even got to the conker.

  There were two of them.

  ‘Hey, Pig Face,’ said the tall one with ginger hair. ‘Why are you in our playground?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’ The one with the chipped front tooth was short and skinny with glasses on, but still bigger than me.

  I pushed my hair back, trying not to look like I was scared. But I was. And they could see it. Ginger Tall smiled – a mean, thin smile, all glinting from metal braces.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Broken Tooth added.

  The rain was like someone throwing pencils on my face. I turned to leave, but Ginger Tall ran in front of me. ‘Where are you going, Pig Face?’

  I said nothing. Tried to pass.

  Ginger Tall grabbed my arm with nasty fingers. They dug in so hard they hurt. ‘You deaf now, too?’

  I opened my mouth, but there was a tight feeling in my throat, stopping my words. I was so scared that I could feel a little bit of wee coming out.

  Help, let me go. That was what I wanted to shout, but my voice wasn’t working.

  And then Ginger Tall made his hand into a fist.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Art’s phone is still going to voicemail, so I speak to Hen again, ranting down the phone at her as I pick apart everything Lucy O’Donnell said. To her credit, Hen refrains from pointing out she told me not to go and meet the woman.

  I come away from the call exhausted and wound up. It’s not quite midday but I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down in front of my computer. I need to sort out a lesson plan for later in the week and check my emails. Hopefully that will take my mind off what’s just happened.

  There’re a couple of messages from the Art & Media Institute, just admin stuff. One from my agent, inviting me to a drinks party in May. I squirm as I read it – all friendly and chatty but with a rather barbed ‘Do hope you will have some news for us soon’ at the end. She’s referring to my writing, of course. I was starting to plan a fourth book when Beth died. I haven’t written a word since. I’ve checked my contract and there’s nothing to say I have to send her my next idea by a certain date. Still, after producing nothing and working on nothing for eight years, I can’t help but wonder when she’s finally going to get fed up and chuck me back on the slush pile where she found me.

  The last email I open is from Morgan, Art’s sister. I’ve left this one to the end, because virtually all communication with Morgan leaves me feeling inadequate. It’s not really her fault – she’s just so groomed and ultra-organized. She and Art didn’t know each other for most of their childhoods, which were spent at opposite ends of the social spectrum. Morgan was born into privilege and privately educated splendour, growing up in Edinburgh. Art, meanwhile, was the illegitimate son of Morgan’s father and a pretty London waitress, and grew up in single-parent poverty in Archway.

  I force myself to read Morgan’s email. Sure enough, she’s asking what the arrangements are for Art’s fortieth-birthday party which, as Hen reminded me earlier, is this Friday. I take a breath. It’s not really a problem. I’ve already told our friends and was just planning to pop to M&S at some point to stock up on party food. We have a well-loaded iPod and plenty of booze – Art buys wine and beer in bulk as part of some business deal, and our entire dining room is basically a large drinks cupboard.

  My meagre arrangements, however, clearly won’t satisfy Morgan. I read through her email with a growing sense of guilt – and resentment.

  Hey Gen!!! How are things? I’m planning to be with you Friday lunchtime (I’m flying in on the Red Eye from a conference in New York). Hope that’s okay? Is there anything you’d like me to bring for Art’s party? I’m dying to hear all about it – when did you send invites? I guess mine’s waiting for me at home – or did you leave me off the list?! Only kidding. Who is your caterer? What music are you planning? Will you be working from a theme for the decorations or just going with something traditional? What kind of cake have you ordered? Is there any surprise element I should know to keep quiet about?

  Etc., etc. I start to email back but am soon overwhelmed by the impossibility of explaining to Morgan in writing that her idea of party arranging is a far cry from the low-key efforts that pass muster in our corner of north London.

  Feeling irritated, I simply reply that I’ll see her in two days’ time, then crawl onto the sofa, determined to spend the next ten minutes making a shopping list in my head. Hummus, olives, pitta . . . maybe I could introduce some sort of camp, seventies theme with prawn cocktail canapés or cheese and pineapple on sticks . . . But my mind keeps going over what Lucy O’Donnell told me.

  Her words swim around my head.

  Beth is alive. Your husband knew.

  It’s bright and crisp and clear outside. The sort of early spring day I normally love. But today it doesn’t touch me. Today, I can’t think straight. Can’t think at all. The woman was lying . . . it was a scam . . . that’s the only explanation. Art would never, could never, have colluded in such a lie.

  And yet doubt crawls through my mind. Could any part of what O’Donnell told me be true?

  The phone rings. And though I’ve been expecting the call, the sound makes me jump. I reach for the handset beside the sofa.

  ‘Gen?’ Art’s voice is full of concern. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Oh, Art.’ I can feel the tears welling up just at the sound of his voice.

  ‘Hen just called me,’ Art says. ‘She told me about . . . that woman . . .’ He spits out the words. ‘I can’t bloody believe it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m slightly thrown. Hen knows Art well, of course, but I didn’t expect him to hear this intimate piece of information from anyone other than me.

  ‘So tell me exactly what this woman said to you?
’ he says.

  I go through the whole thing again. I hesitate when I get to the part about O’Donnell’s conviction that Art himself was involved, then I rush in and tell him that too. He makes a noise that’s halfway between a growl and a groan.

  ‘I can’t believe they would do this,’ he says.

  ‘Who?’ I sit straight up on the sofa. ‘Art, do you know who . . . who that woman is?’

  He sighs. ‘Not for sure, but I’m guessing John Vaizey from Associated Software sent her. We totally crushed them on a pitch last week.’

  My head spins. ‘Why would one of your business rivals pretend that . . .?’

  ‘Vaizey threatened me after the pitch, called me a “media tart” and said I’d better not take the account if I wanted to stay in business.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I say.

  ‘I thought it was just a meaningless threat but . . .’ Art’s breathing is shallow. ‘I never thought he’d do something so cruel . . . or . . . or aimed at you.’

  I think it through. Fourteen years of listening to Art talk about his business dealings have left me with no illusions; the apparently sedate world of corporate investments often produces unbelievably destructive and underhand tactics. ‘But . . . but how would he know the sister of the theatre nurse at the hospital?’ I say. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It’s a con, Gen,’ Art says bitterly. ‘You don’t even know this woman was the nurse’s sister. You said yourself you couldn’t even be sure the woman in the photo she showed you was really the nurse from the hospital.’

  This is true. For the first time in hours the horror of O’Donnell’s claims slides into a context I can cope with. Everything she said was designed to hurt me and – through me – Art.

  ‘Anyway, who else could it be?’ Art goes on. ‘You don’t have any enemies. You don’t even have a proper job.’

  There’s a pause while I register what he’s said. It’s true, of course – I only work at the college eight hours a week – but it’s blunt, even for Art, who never sugar-coats anything. He obviously realizes this and softens his voice.

  ‘The point is, everyone loves you. It’s got to be a business thing.’

  I’m nodding on the other end of the phone, desperately wanting to believe him. And yet Lucy O’Donnell’s anxious face is still in my mind’s eye.

  ‘It’s just . . . she seemed so sincere, like . . . even if the whole thing was made up, she genuinely thinks it’s true.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’ Art’s voice has the force of a hurricane. ‘Don’t start imagining things. I was there too, remember? Beth died inside you.’

  I flinch.

  ‘How could anyone think she’s alive?’ Art persists. ‘There was a whole team of people in the operating theatre who said she was dead.’

  ‘Lucy O’Donnell said Dr Rodriguez got most of them out of the room before the baby was born; that he gave them food poisoning or something so they wouldn’t be there when—’

  ‘Can you hear how far-fetched all this sounds?’ Art demands. ‘What about the scan that showed she was dead? No movement, no heartbeat. What about the tests on her they did later?’

  ‘You can manipulate images and turn off sounds and substitute bodies,’ I say stubbornly.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Art says. ‘The doctor took her out of you. He saw her.’

  ‘I didn’t see her,’ I say, remembering how Beth had been born so disfigured that the doctor had advised against it when I came round after the anaesthetic. The phone feels hot against my ear.

  ‘No.’ Art hesitates. ‘But I did.’

  A woman’s voice sounds in the background. She has a slight French accent. She’s asking Art to go with her. Art muffles the receiver.

  ‘Okay, Sandrine, sure.’ He sounds self-conscious. Unlike himself. Then he’s back. ‘Sorry, Gen, I have to go. I was supposed to be in my next meeting ten minutes ago.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? Why don’t you call Hen to come over, or Sue, or—’

  ‘I’m fine, Art, honest.’

  We say goodbye and I curl up on the sofa. The memories that I keep walled up are flooding back. How I got pregnant with Beth so easily – within a couple of months of coming off the Pill. How happy Art was when I told him: his eyes lit up with a boyish grin. How tired I felt and how it didn’t feel real until I saw Beth sucking her thumb on the scan. Not that I knew she was a girl then; I asked, but they said the position she was in made it impossible to tell. How I sang to her songs that my dad used to sing to me. How she would kick when I was in the bath and how Art and I would watch my belly moving, entranced and – we laughingly admitted to each other – ever so slightly freaked out.

  The day we travelled to Oxford to stay in our rented house for the last month, I was all hormonal, crying at the change of scene, worried I wouldn’t settle and that we should never have left the security of London and our local hospital. But the house was so lovely and Dr Rodriguez was so reassuring that I felt right at home within hours of arriving.

  My mind skips to the day itself: 11 June. I’d been feeling light-headed and groggy all day and hadn’t felt the baby move for hours. At first, I wasn’t particularly bothered by this – at 37 weeks her movements had slowed right down. But Art was anxious. Jittery. He was trying not to show how concerned he felt, but he kept suggesting I went to the hospital for a proper check. I hadn’t had a scan for weeks but Dr Rodriguez said they could fit me in late afternoon. We got there early, so took a stroll around the natural-birth pod, which wasn’t being used that day The pod was – is – an amazing creation. A womb-shaped environment designed to replicate whatever natural scene you choose: at the flick of a button, the walls show a film of the sea, or woods or open countryside – or even, at an extra cost, the client’s own footage – with sounds and smells to match. There’s a birthing pool, a soft, padded floor that can be sloped at various gradients, and pillows and cushions in a range of sizes and textures. I was still, at that point, hopeful I’d be able to give birth there. I remember Art and I agreeing that the pool with the film of the ocean all around and a starlit sky above would be our first choice – both of us loving the swish and drag of the waves and the scent of salt in the warm air.

  Still feeling lightheaded, and increasingly worried that I hadn’t felt the baby move for hours now, I walked with Art across to the main building for my check-up. Dr Rodriguez asked me to wait: there was some problem with the ultrasound scanner in his usual room. We waited nearly two hours until another was free. It grew overcast outside. Art was fidgeting, anxious. And then Dr Rodriguez was with us. The radiographer had gone, so the doctor did the scan himself. I remember him peering at the screen, the concern on his face. And then him turning to us, saying that he was so terribly sorry. He had to say the words three times before I heard them: our baby had died in the womb.

  Art and I were distraught. Then Art insisted the hospital did the C-section to remove Beth as soon as possible. I hadn’t eaten for hours, he argued, there was no reason not to go ahead straightaway. The doctor insisted I should have a few hours – maybe even a few days to get over the shock of the news. Art refused to listen. I don’t remember having an opinion myself. I was too numb, swept along by Art’s fury and determination.

  Then the doctor suggested I should give birth naturally, and both Art and I insisted that we wanted a C-section. Art was a whirlwind on this. At the time I felt grateful to have someone fighting my corner for me.

  Now, I can’t help but look back and wonder why he was so insistent.

  We left the soft surroundings of the consulting rooms to enter the steel-and-antiseptic world of the operating theatre. I was so scared before the general anaesthetic, my hands were shaking. I remember Art’s warm fingers curling over mine, covering the raw torn skin around my nails, his eyes gleaming wet.

  ‘I’m here, Gen,’ he’d said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

  And then the si
lence in the recovery room as I came round. My eyes so heavy, struggling to open. Trying to focus on the clock on the wall, wondering where I was for a split second, then catching a glimpse of a nurse scurrying past outside the room, her face turned away. Shifting my gaze a fraction. Seeing Art sitting beside me, leaning forward, his face lined with pain. No baby. No baby. Dr Rodriguez walking over . . . a shadowy figure behind Art . . .

  ‘I’m so sorry we lost her,’ Art said. And his words sent me spinning and falling into darkness.

  After that it’s a blur: I remember the view from my window – a willow tree sweeping across a patch of grass with the curving glass roof of the birthing pod in the distance, a harsh reminder of the labour I had hoped for. I stared at the tree and the grass and the glass roof for hours on end, trying to take in what had happened. Dr Rodriguez explained his suspicions – later confirmed by the tests into Beth’s DNA – that she had a defective chromosome. We got the details weeks later. Full Trisomy 18, a random genetic condition that isn’t hereditary and which can be suffered to varying degrees. It killed my Beth before she could live.

  I was numb for days, way past Beth’s funeral, way past the test results. And then, slowly, stealthily, Grief crept up on me. A monster, fighting me inside my head, where no one, not even Art or Hen or my mum, could reach me. And with the grief, the anger. The unreasonable fury at perfectly nice people with babies and well-meaning women who tried to empathize by telling me about their miscarriages.

  Unthinkable, uncontrollable, this pain seeped through me, gradually becoming a part of my life, absorbed into its reality. Wanting to move on and yet not wanting to leave Beth behind. No baby. No writing. Just drifting. For the past eight years.

  I get up from the sofa. It’s still early afternoon. Art won’t be back until the evening. I wander listlessly into the kitchen, but have no appetite, so I wander out again. As the afternoon wears on, doubt creeps over me again.

  I meander around the house, unable to settle to anything. In the end I find myself at the top of the house, in Art’s office again. I don’t want to look but I have to. If there’s any paperwork on my stay at the Fair Angel still in our possession, it will surely be in this room.