Close My Eyes (10 page)

There’s a muffled whisper from inside the utility room, then Hen reappears. ‘Sorry.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Got sidetracked.’

I open my mouth ready to challenge her, then close it again. Who she was talking to? Art? I don’t want to think about it.

I’m withdrawn as she comes into the kitchen, but Hen chatters away, all breezy like there’s nothing wrong. We put the crisps she brought from the garage into bowls then string up the
fairy lights together. After that, I retreat to the kitchen while Hen spends an hour setting out candles and reorganizing the furniture in the living room to allow more space ‘for
dancing’.

I can’t help but laugh when I see what she’s done. I point out that Art hates dancing.

Hen rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be so negative,’ she says, and though her tone is light, there’s a cutting edge to her voice. ‘I’m sure he’d dance if you
asked him.’

I feel uneasy. Does she think I’m being unfair on Art? Is her caustic tone connected to what I just overheard her say about me ‘not letting it go’?

Hen obviously catches my discomfort. ‘Sorry, Gen,’ she says, waving her hand, as if to direct the tension between us into the next room. ‘Is there anything else I can
do?’

I look around. It’s almost five now and, to be honest, I’d rather get on with sorting out the rest of the food by myself. Hen has brought a quiche and several of the other guests
will come bearing dishes, so I’ve really only got a pavlova and a Black Forest gateau to finish off – the seventies theme proved irresistible in the end. Anyway, Hen always makes a mess
in the kitchen and I’m still feeling a distance between us that hasn’t been there since the first year after Beth.

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just a few dips to do really . . . Morgan can give me a hand if anything major needs doing.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Hen rolls her eyes. ‘Careful she doesn’t chip a nail.’

‘Sshh!’ I grin.

‘Aw, you know I love Morgan,’ Hen says, heading for the door. As if to prove the point she calls up the stairs. ‘Bye, Morgan.’ But there’s no reply.

‘I think she’s in the bathroom,’ I explain.

‘Can’t wait to see what she’s wearing,’ Hen says in a catty whisper. She points to the fur trim on Morgan’s black suit jacket, which is still lying over the larger
of her two suitcases. ‘How many animals died to make that?’

‘Sssh!’ I scold again, ushering her out of the front door.

I head back to the kitchen and get busy with the gateau. Before I know it, it’s gone six and I’m just laying prosciutto and olives on a plate, feeling frazzled and desperate for a
bath, when Morgan appears. She stares at my ragged fingernails. I catch my reflection in the fridge door. God, I look even more of a mess than I did when she arrived. I’m still in the
sweatpants and T-shirt I threw on this morning, my hair is messily piled on top of my head – and there’s a smear of cherry jam across my cheek.

‘So how’s the latest IVF going?’ Morgan asks, her hands behind her back. ‘I’m so pleased you’re considering trying again.’

I’m taken aback, but I try not to show it. This isn’t the first time that Morgan has known more about my life than I expect her to. Art has always talked to his sister about our
relationship; she was certainly the first person he told that we were engaged, and I know he confided in her years ago, over the failure of our previous IVF treatments. I used to mind but not any
longer. The older I get, the more I realize how much family matters and, after his mum died, Morgan and her brothers were all the family Art had. Anyway, while Morgan always knows the facts of our
relationship, I’m certain Art rarely confides his feelings.

‘We’re still thinking about the IVF,’ I say vaguely and with what I hope is an air of finality.

‘Right.’ Morgan hesitates a second, then holds out one hand. A small, silver package nestles in her palm. She crosses the room and hands it to me. ‘I know it’s Art who
had the birthday, but I wanted to give you this.’ She half-blushes as she speaks, her shoulders hunching slightly as she takes several steps back.

‘Er, thank you,’ I stammer. The silver package is a box, expertly wrapped with a small silver ribbon. I pull the end of the ribbon and it unfurls in my fingers. I glance at Morgan as
I prise the lid off the box. She seems uncharacteristically uncertain, anxious almost.

Inside the box is a silver butterfly on a chain. I lift it out. It’s as simple as it is beautiful. The letters ‘a’ and ‘g’ entwined sparkle on one wing.

‘It’s white gold and diamonds,’ Morgan says. ‘I had it done for you and Art.’

‘It’s lovely,’ I breathe, examining the bracelet again. ‘Oh, Morgan.’

I’m overwhelmed. How like my sister-in-law, so brusque and supercilious on the outside, to show such hidden depths of thoughtfulness. I look up. Morgan is blushing again, her face half
turned away. For a second she looks utterly vulnerable.

‘The butterfly is the symbol of change. I thought it might help you…’ She pauses. ‘I don’t mean to patronize you, Geniver, but I know what its like to feel stuck
and I thought this might help you to move on, to let things be different. Maybe even to write again.’

It’s not easy to hear Morgan’s insight into my life, but I am truly touched and genuinely grateful for her kindness. I rush across the short distance between us and hug her
tightly.

‘Thank you.’ Tears spring to my eyes.

‘You’re welcome.’ The sharp quality returns to Morgan’s voice, her momentary vulnerability fading.

She disentangles herself from me and I draw back, aware that Morgan needs to retreat into her shell again. I fasten the bracelet around my wrist and turn it so the diamond ‘a’ and
‘g’ catch in the light.

‘I won’t forget this,’ I say.

Morgan shrugs. Her gaze flickers over the dips, mostly still in their packaging, that are spread out across the kitchen countertops. Even though I know there are some delicious dishes in the
fridge and the larder, I can’t help but feel hopeless and disorganized. I experience a stab of self-loathing.

Morgan is so together, jetting around the world to meeting after meeting, with never a hair out of place. And yet she still finds time to come up with a thoughtful gift like this while I can
barely make it downstairs by midday without an egg stain on my lapel. Morgan must look at this house and wonder what on earth I do all day.

Hell, I wonder myself.

‘If there’s nothing I can do here, I’m going to take a shower,’

she says.

My jaw drops. What on earth has she been doing for the past three hours if she hasn’t showered yet? But Morgan has already vanished. By the time she gets back downstairs, with her hair
artfully teased into large, dark curls and a satin robe over her clothes to protect them, the food is all on plates and back in the fridge. The living room and the kitchen are in a reasonable state
of tidiness so I start up the music and light the candles Hen set out earlier.

Art’s due back any second, there are only twenty minutes before we’re expecting guests to arrive, and I’m now truly desperate to get upstairs to wash and change. Of course, Mum
chooses exactly this moment to call from Australia.

‘How are you, sweetheart?’ she coos.

‘Great, Mum, how’s the holiday going?’

‘Super, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘Though Doug’s IBS has been playing up for the past few days and my golf game has gone to pot. I totally fell apart on the back nine
yesterday . . .’ She rambles on for a few more minutes. I try to listen, but my mind’s on a million different things. The truth is, I have hardly anything in common with Mum.
She’s all into golf and her bridge games and what colour pelmets will go with her new three-piece suite. She never reads a book and thinks it’s bad manners to discuss anything even
vaguely connected with politics or philosophy or religion. She doesn’t understand why I wrote my novels – or, for that matter, why I stopped.

Though she’s never said so, I’m sure that privately she thinks I’m lucky Art puts up with me. Maybe if I’d given her grandchildren, our relationship would have been
different but, as things stand, the gulf between us feels unbridgeable.

Art arrives home as Mum is telling me about Ayers Rock and the nice couple she and Doug had dinner with yesterday evening. I watch Morgan waft towards him. Her satin robe slips from her
shoulder, revealing the thin red strap of whatever she’s wearing underneath. There’s something possessive about the way she opens her arms to let him hug her. No, not possessive.
Controlling. It’s not surprising coming from Morgan, and maybe it’s often like that with an older sister and a younger brother. As an only child, I find sibling relationships both
strange and fascinating. I spent much of my childhood before Dad died wandering around our garden making up imaginary families for myself. Dad loved me to tell him about my made-up brothers and
sisters. Mum just found it plain odd.

Art pecks Morgan on the cheek but holds back from her hug.

I realize I’m watching some kind of power struggle in play. Well, that makes sense. Art wouldn’t want to feel owned by anyone. Perhaps it explains why I’ve never properly
understood his relationship with his sister. They’re less than two years apart, and while anyone can see how close they are, Art’s always seemed slightly wary around her. He’s
never admitted this, of course. In fact, he looks at me like I’m mad whenever I bring it up.
Morgan’s just Morgan, Gen,
he said once.
A bit spiky, but she means
well
.

They talk in low voices in the hall. At one point Art looks up at me and half smiles. It’s a sad smile. He looks exhausted. Morgan touches his arm, to get his attention back, but instead
of looking at her, Art takes a step away. I can’t see Morgan’s face but her back stiffens. She tosses back her dark hair and stalks off, into the living room.

‘So is Art looking forward to his party?’ Mum chirrups down the line.

‘Yeah, I think so. Hey, speaking of which, I’d better go and get ready,’ I say.

‘Well, make sure you look nice for Art,’ Mum says meaningfully. ‘He works so hard. You should make more effort, darling, so he feels special.’

What’s she saying, that I’m some hopeless, loser wife, just along for the spending money, not really good enough for my golden husband? Thanks to her, and Morgan and Hen earlier,
I’m feeling more than a little bruised; not the best start for a party.

‘Okay, Mum.’ I’m itching to snap at her but she’s thousands of miles away and the last thing I want is to start an argument, so I just get off the phone, wave at Art and
head upstairs for my shower.

When I come down again I can hear Morgan and Art talking in the living room. I can’t make out what they are saying. They’re sitting side by side on the sofa and look up as I enter.
Art smiles with unmistakable relief. In contrast, Morgan looks annoyed. Still in her robe, she holds up two almost-identical black shoes. Both are narrow and elegant with high, spiky heels. They
make my feet hurt just looking at them.

‘What d’you think, Gen?’ she says. ‘I can’t decide.’

I glance at Art who, very subtly, rolls his eyes. I suppress a grin.

‘They’re both gorgeous,’ I say, honestly.

‘These are Manolos.’ Morgan holds one shoe higher than the other. ‘But I’m thinking of wearing these.’ She raises the other shoe. ‘They’re from a new
designer I found in New York. You wouldn’t have heard of her but she’s really building a reputation stateside.’

I stare at the shoes more closely. The second shoe is slightly sleeker than the first, with a marginally more pointed toe and thinner stiletto heels.

‘Like I say, they’re both lovely.’ I glance at Art again. He gazes up at me, appealing to be rescued. He’s still in his suit from work.

‘Hey, darling, you should go and change,’ I say, wandering over and resting my hand on his shoulder.

‘You’re right.’ Art smiles gratefully at me. He stands and leaves.

For a second, Morgan looks exasperated, though whether with me, Art or herself I can’t tell. Then she smiles and follows Art out of the room.

I take a breath and study myself in the mirror.

My hair is brushed now, curling over my shoulders. My fringe is still too long and there are still shadows under my eyes but, thanks to Bobbi Brown and Urban Decay, I don’t look as haggard
as I did earlier. The top I’m wearing is semi-fitted and suits my curves, though I’m sure Morgan thinks I could have chosen something more glamorous than a pair of GAP jeans to go with
them.

I turn sideways, eyeing the slight roll of my stomach. Before I was pregnant I had a flat tummy. Now I’m just like all the mums out there with stretch marks and bulges. Only without the
baby, of course. There’ll be here soon, some of those mums, full of chat about their kids. I’ll probably end up talking to the guys about their work; at least they won’t pity me.
I glance at my watch. This is always the worst moment before a party, when there’s nothing more to prepare but nobody’s here yet.

Will enough people turn up? Now I’m standing, waiting for our friends to arrive, I can’t help but feel a twinge of nerves. I make a face at myself in the mirror. It’s no big
deal. Just thirty-odd people coming round for snacks and a few beers. As with work, so with home: Art hates anything that looks or feels elitist.

I can hear Art humping the second of Morgan’s cases up the stairs. Looking in the mirror again, I can’t help but wonder what she really thinks of me. On the surface she’s all
smiles and appreciative noises, but underneath I suspect she thinks Art could have done better. In so many ways Art is echoing the career of their father – but when it comes to women,
he’s made very different choices.

Brandon Ryan was born in Glasgow towards the end of the Second World War. He never spoke much about his childhood, at least not in public, but from what I’ve picked up from the articles
and occasional hints dropped by Morgan, it was a pretty brutal upbringing. As a boy, Brandon was beaten by his father and regularly went hungry. He cut all ties with his family at the age of
eighteen and travelled to London in the early 1960s, determined to make his fortune. He was a born entrepreneur – a millionaire within five years and a billionaire before he died. He fathered
three children – Morgan and her two younger brothers – with his wife, a beautiful socialite called Fay Langham. I’ve never met Fay. She and Art don’t exactly get along.