Close My Eyes (16 page)

‘It’s fine,’ I say. Now I’ve got over the surprise it’s actually quite nice to have him here. It might take my mind off my failed attempts to find Dr Rodriguez.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Sure.’ Lorcan flops onto the sofa. ‘Man, maybe it isn’t here.’

I feel down the back of the sofa where Lorcan was sitting and find the knife immediately. As I hand it to Lorcan, I can’t help but wonder whether he really lost it, or whether he
deliberately left it here so he would have an excuse to come back.

I push this thought out of my head and wander into the kitchen. As the kettle boils, I bend down and check my reflection in the steel. My nose is shiny and I’m wearing only a trace of
eyeliner, but at least it hasn’t smudged. I make a face at my reflection. Why on earth would Lorcan be interested in me?

‘Geniver?’ His voice is close.

I jerk upright, startled, and clutch at the wooden countertop. He’s standing in the doorway, watching me. ‘Jesus.’

‘Sorry.’ There’s a preoccupied look on his face. The Swiss Army knife is in his hand. As he speaks he absently flicks out the blade. The lethal metal glints in the overhead
light.

I take an instinctive step away, remembering how easily it cut my hand yesterday.

‘Sorry,’ Lorcan says again, noticing my alarm. ‘Habit.’ He strokes the blade carefully back into place. ‘Look, I’m not just here for my knife. I mean, I did,
obviously, leave it behind last night, but that’s not the only reason I came back.’

‘Oh?’ It comes out slightly strangled-sounding. I fold my arms and lean against the counter, trying to appear relaxed.

Lorcan grins. ‘We were talking. Last night, I mean. And I know there was something you wanted to talk about. And, well, sometimes it’s easier to speak to someone you don’t
know.’

‘So you came round to listen?’ I raise my eyebrows.

‘To help, if I can.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. ‘I wanted to be a priest when I was a kid.’

I laugh, as relief and disappointment spread through me in equal measures. ‘I’ve got plenty of friends, you know.’ I reach for two mugs.

‘Sure you do, yeah.’ He moves over to the fridge and pulls out the carton of milk. ‘But they all have children, don’t they?’

I shake my head, opening the cupboard and rootling around for tea bags. ‘What’s that got to do—?’

‘I saw you talking to one of them in the kitchen.’ He offers me the carton of milk. ‘Couldn’t help hearing some of it. How happy you were she was pregnant. Reassuring her
you were all okay with it, which was obviously bollocks, but . . .’

‘You don’t know me.’ I grab the milk and turn away.

There’s a pause. The kettle boils and hisses away into silence again. I look up, wondering if I sounded rude.

Lorcan grins. ‘Never said I did. But tell me I’m wrong.’ He points to my bitten fingernails, clutching the milk carton. ‘Those nails don’t lie.’

I shake my head. I can’t think what to say. My head feels like the kettle has just boiled inside it.

‘Okay, look, I’m sorry.’ Lorcan shrugs. ‘I only wanted to help.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t need any help.’

He stares at me. I glare back. I should feel furious at his interference. But there’s real kindness in the way he’s looking at me.

‘I just want her.’ My voice is tiny. Like a child’s. Small and vulnerable. I look down, humiliated.

‘Your daughter?’

I nod, unable to speak.

‘You never told me her name.’

‘Beth.’ It comes out like a sigh, so soft I think he won’t have heard it.

But he has. ‘Beth? That’s a beautiful name.’

I nod again. It’s all I have of her. Her name. I wipe my eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m not upset. I’m not.’

Lorcan chuckles. ‘Look, let me make the tea. You go and sit down.’

I walk past him, back to the living room. I sit on the sofa and wait. I can’t tell him. I can’t. It’ll sound mad and I don’t want to cry in front of him again.

He walks in with the tea and sets both mugs down on the table. He settles into the opposite corner of the sofa, right by the photo of my dad as a boy, and smiles. ‘I know it’s not
the same, but I miss my son very much. He’s here in London and I spend nine months of the year in Cork . . .’ He tails off. ‘Look, I’ll just drink this and go.’

I nod. That’s the best thing. He should go. Just drink his tea and go.

The phone rings shrilly.

‘Gen?’ It’s Hen. Her voice is all wavery, like she’s been crying. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all morning. Please can we talk? I need to talk to
you.’

‘What’s wrong?’ My mind immediately flashes back to her revelation at the party. ‘Is it the baby?’

‘What?’ She sniffs loudly. ‘No, yes, no . . . no, there’s nothing wrong. I just still feel so bad I didn’t tell you about . . .’

‘About being pregnant?’ I sigh. My chest constricts. For a second I feel the unfairness of having to deal with Hen’s guilt, then I push away the resentment. It’s not
Hen’s fault things turned out the way they did. ‘It’s fine, Hen, we went over this at the party. I’m happy for you.’

‘I know but I’m really beating myself up that I didn’t tell you.’

Lorcan is on his feet across the room. I look up. He takes a long swig from his mug then sets it down on the table. He points to the door, indicating he’s going to leave.

‘Hang on, Hen.’ I put the phone down on the side table and walk over. ‘You don’t have to go,’ I say quietly.

He shrugs and holds up his Swiss Army knife. ‘I’ve got what I came for.’ He stares at me, his dark blue eyes heavy with meaning. A shiver snakes through me – somehow both
terrifying and intriguing at the same time.

‘Right.’ I step back, letting him pass. As we reach the front door Lorcan takes out his phone.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ I say. ‘You really don’t have to—’

‘It’s not a problem.’ Lorcan checks the time on his phone. ‘I’m seeing Cal for lunch in half an hour anyway.’ He hesitates. ‘Would you like my mobile
number? In case . . . if you want to talk, if there’s anything I can do?’

I nod. I can’t help but feel there’s something illicit about me taking his number. Like it should have happened through Art, if it was going to happen at all.

We swap numbers and Lorcan leaves. I go back into the living room and it’s not until I see the phone on the side table that I remember Hen. I spend the next ten minutes reassuring her. She
doesn’t mention Lucy O’Donnell’s claims – or refer to the money Art paid to MDO until the last part of our conversation. Then she asks if I’m still worrying about it
all.

‘A bit,’ I confess.

I hear Hen draw in her breath. ‘Oh, Gen,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry to go on while you’re having to deal with all of that.’

‘It’s okay, I—’

‘But I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she says. ‘I mean, it would be crazy to get obsessed over some random madwoman and a bit of money going out of one of Art’s
accounts.’

‘Fifty grand isn’t a “bit” of money,’ I say.

‘Okay, but Gen, even if it was a million pounds it wouldn’t prove anything except . . . God, except how much you want it to be true that Beth is still alive.’

I suddenly see myself from Hen’s perspective: childless and obsessed and clinging to a pipe dream. I remember overhearing her on the phone the other day, her voice pitying and
exasperated.

‘Honestly,’ I insist. ‘I’m not obsessing about any of it.’ Right now I’ve had enough of Hen. I love her dearly, but she’s demanding and I don’t
have the energy to manage all her emotions as well as my own.

Soothed, Hen finishes the conversation by making me laugh at an encounter she had in Harvey Nichols on Saturday with a shop assistant who once cut up her credit card.

‘She was all over me like she couldn’t do enough for me,’ Hen says, with a grin in her voice. ‘Just goes to show. She was snooty as hell five years ago when I
didn’t have any money.’

One hour later and I’m all set to head into town to teach my Monday afternoon class. It still hasn’t snowed but when I step outside there’s a bone-freezing
chill in the crisp, dry air. I go back into the house and dig a blue wool beanie out of the hall cupboard. I tug it down over my ears and wander along the road enjoying the combination of cold and
sunshine. I’m almost in a good mood when I reach the Art & Media Institute.

Plenty of today’s students are keen to talk to me after class. I have a quick chat with a couple of them, then slip out of the building and head to the bus stop. I’m feeling
remarkably positive until I get off the bus at the other end and realize that it’s now late Monday afternoon and, despite my promise to myself, I’m no closer to tracking down Rodriguez
than I was last week. I’m so lost in my unhappy thoughts that I walk into someone as I turn the corner, two streets from home.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ I say, all flustered. Then I look up.

The woman I’ve walked into is Charlotte West from my Thursday tutor group.

‘Geniver,’ she says, as if we’re old friends. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She runs her hand over her blonde hair, letting her fingers trail down to that Orla Kiely
bag, identical to the one Hen bought me. With a jolt I realize she has had her hair shortened and styled into a shaggy bob with a long, wispy fringe. It’s like a mirror image of my own hair,
only fair.

‘I live here,’ I say, utterly thrown. ‘How come you’re here? I thought you only came up to London for your writing class . . .’ For a second my mind goes blank.
Should Charlotte have been in today’s class after all? Have I got completely muddled up? No, Charlotte definitely comes on Thursdays.

‘I have lots of friends in London actually.’ Charlotte smiles again.

‘Of course,’ I stammer.

‘Before we moved to Somerset we lived quite near here. Then after the divorce . . .’ She pauses. ‘Well, I’m on my way to visit a friend now, in fact.’

I have the strong sense she’s lying about that last statement. But why? ‘I’m just back from today’s class,’ I say, trying to pull myself together.

‘Did you come on the bus?’ Charlotte asks smoothly.

‘Er, yes.’ My eyes drift down to the book in her hand.
Oh goodness
. She’s holding my
novel
–
Rain Heart
– the one she was talking about
at the end of our last class.

Charlotte follows my gaze. ‘As I say, I’m visiting a friend.’ Charlotte’s smile deepens. She touches her fringe self-consciously. ‘And I was reading your book
again. It really is very good. Will you sign it for me?’

‘Thank you, sure.’ I take the book and pen Charlotte offers and scribble her name, ‘Best wishes’ and my signature on the title page. I hand the book back, still feeling
awkward. This is just such a weird coincidence . . . Charlotte being near my house, carrying my book and my bag and with her new hair style.

‘So where are you . . .?’ Charlotte waves her hand, taking in the surrounding roads.

‘A couple of roads up there.’ I point, vaguely, in the direction of home. Maybe I’m overreacting, but there’s something about the way Charlotte’s looking at me that
is making me feel increasingly uncomfortable. She’s trying to sound casual, but there’s an insistence in those hard green eyes.

‘What, Burnham Street? That’s the next one on from where my friend lives.’

‘Er, yes . . .’

‘Just you and . . . your husband?’ Charlotte raises her eyebrows.

Again, I feel the pressure behind her question. Still, it’s no secret that I’m married. I wear a platinum band on my ring finger. Art has a matching one. ‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Oh, well, it’s nice to see you.’

‘I’d love to be able to write like you,’ Charlotte says. ‘I was going to ask, actually, if there was any chance of private tuition after the end of term. Maybe I could
buy you a coffee? Discuss it?’

‘Sorry,’ I say, taking a step back. ‘I don’t do private classes. Look, I really have to go now, Charlotte. I’ll see you on Thursday.’

Charlotte says nothing for a moment, as if she’s waiting for something to happen. Then she nods with a sigh. ‘Bye, then, Geniver.’

‘Bye.’ I turn and walk away. I can’t help but feel spooked. I stop at the corner and look around, half-expecting Charlotte to still be standing where I left her, watching me,
but she’s gone.

I get home and switch on all the downstairs lights. Art hates it when I do this, but thanks to Charlotte I feel unsettled and the house is big and dark and empty. Another huge mound of junk mail
is spread out over the doormat. I pick everything up, check there’s nothing important or personal and carry the whole lot to the recycling pile in the corner of the kitchen.

I’m about to drop my armful of brochures and envelopes onto the rest, when I catch sight of the story on the front page of the local free paper. There’s a small picture of a
middle-aged black woman.

Lucy O’Donnell.

I scan the caption underneath the picture. My blood turns to ice.

She is dead.

I snatch up the paper and read the full story:

My heart thumps in my chest. I stare at the words, as the terrible realization settles over me. Lucy O’Donnell has been killed. The woman at the very centre of the truth
about Beth has died under – I glance over the news story again – under what
have
to be suspicious circumstances. If it was just an accident, why haven’t the police
identified her? The image they’ve used is from the photo Lucy showed me, only with her sister, Mary, cut out of the picture. I remember her shoving it into her coat pocket. But what about her
handbag? Why didn’t she have that with her too – or her purse or her phone? And what about her husband, Bernard? She said he was here in London too, so why hasn’t he gone to the
police?

I’m clutching the newspaper so hard the sides of it are crumpled in my fists. I remember coming home from my lunch with Hen last Thursday afternoon and the police lights flashing up ahead
as my bus crawled along Seven Sisters Road. That must have been for Lucy.