Close My Eyes

by Sophie McKenzie

  ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Lorcan pushes it open.

  Inside the shop I gaze around at the stand of flower-themed cards – Blank for your own message – and the shelves stacked with fancy pens and jars of local ‘apple-cider flavour’ sweets. A girl – young, no more than twenty-one or -two – looks up from behind the counter.

  Lorcan smiles and starts talking. My stomach feels heavy as I browse the card stand. This shop can’t possibly have anything to do with Art. If he did come inside, it must have been under duress – or because he was out of other options. I can’t see either Sandrine or Hen wanting to shop here. Maybe Charlotte West, though.

  Lorcan is chatting away behind me. The girl nods as he explains we’re on a mission to help a friend replace a missing scarf.

  ‘From what I understand,’ Lorcan says, ‘it was black silk. He said he bought it here so, as we were passing through, we promised we’d stop off to see if you had a replacement. Sort of a surprise for his birthday.’

  I turn around. Lorcan is leaning on the counter. For some reason he has dropped his own way of speaking in favour of a rather upper-class English accent. The young girl behind has pursed her perfect cupid’s-bow lips, concentrating on his every word. She has to be less than half his age and yet she’s totally caught up in his charm. She points over to the scarf rack, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t remember a man’s scarf in black silk,’ she says in the plummiest of accents herself.

  Lorcan turns, waving me over.

  ‘Show the young lady the picture,’ he says. ‘It might help her remember the scarf.’

  The upper-class accent he has assumed mirrors perfectly the way the girl speaks. With a jolt I realize it must be a deliberate ploy to make her feel comfortable – and more likely to open up.

  Obediently, I scroll to the photo of Art and hand my phone to the girl.

  ‘He only bought the scarf recently,’ I say.

  To my amazement she nods. ‘Oh, yah, he comes here a lot,’ she says.

  I stare at her, my mouth gaping. ‘A lot?’

  The girl nods again. ‘He’s a friend of Bitsy and Bobs. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘A friend of the shop?’ Lorcan frowns. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Bitsy and Bobs are the owners. Robert and Elizabeth Renner. They’re not here right now. Bobs should be in later, though. I’m holding the fort.’

  Art is friendly with a couple of shopkeepers who run a bijou gift outlet in the middle of Somerset? It makes no sense.

  ‘So you’ve seen him recently?’ Lorcan points to the picture of Art. ‘It’s just we didn’t know he knew the owners, so . . .’

  ‘Yah, like I don’t work every day but, like, I was here the Saturday before last, and he came in then.’

  I blink, my mind flashing back to that particular day. The week before Lucy showed up . . . the week before the party. I slept late and when I woke, Art had left a note on my pillow. Annoying meeting in town. Back by 4.

  He had been back by four or so. We’d had a cup of tea and he’d brushed away my question about his meeting with a sigh, saying he didn’t want to talk about work tonight. We’d watched some rubbish film on TV while eating an Indian takeaway, then gone to bed. Nothing about that entire day had made me suspect that Art had spent the first part of it in Somerset.

  The girl is talking again, in response to something Lorcan has asked that I wasn’t listening to. I force my mind back to their conversation.

  ‘I’d say he comes in once a month,’ the girl says.

  ‘Alone?’ The question sounds inappropriate as it leaves my mouth. Shit. I should have left the questions to Lorcan. He asks them far better.

  The girl screws up her face. ‘No,’ she says. ‘He’s always with his family.’

  It’s like a punch in the guts. ‘His family?’ I echo, my legs threatening to give way under me.

  The girl looks at me curiously.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not sure exactly what you mean,’ Lorcan says quickly.

  The girl raises her eyebrows. ‘I mean his wife and child, of course.’

  The shop seems to spin around me. It was one thing to suspect Art of meeting a woman in a hotel room, but to hear someone talk out loud about a wife and child is beyond shocking.

  And yet . . . my mind tries to process what this revelation means.

  It surely means Beth is alive. And Art is having an affair with the woman who he’s passing off as her mother. An affair. Wasn’t this precisely the conclusion Morgan thought I had jumped to? After the chambermaid’s insistence that she’d never seen Art with a woman, I’d started to believe that perhaps that part of my suspicions was wrong. But no . . . Art has a double life. He has taken our daughter and put her at the centre of another family.

  I lean back against a display cupboard, pressing my hand against the wood to steady myself.

  It’s unbelievable. And yet it makes sense. If I accept that Art is in love with someone else, then the rest all follows. For her he has been prepared to lie to me and to kill to cover his tracks. For her, he took away my baby. Unless the child is hers . . . theirs . . . That’s possible too. Which means Art took away our baby for some other reason that I don’t yet understand.

  But what if it is Beth?

  My Beth. And she calls some other woman ‘Mummy’.

  Fury surges through me. My fingers curl over the cupboard edge, the wood cutting into my palm as the next question explodes like a grenade in my head. Who is this woman?

  Who the hell is this woman who has ripped the heart out of my life?

  Lorcan is still talking to the girl. I force myself back to their conversation. Before everything else, I have to find out if the child Art comes here with is Beth.

  ‘How old?’ I demand, striding over to the counter.

  The girl stares at me blankly.

  Lorcan puts a restraining hand on my arm. I realize I am actually shaking.

  ‘We’re just wondering how old the little one is now?’ he asks with a smile.

  The girl in the shop stares at him quizzically. ‘I thought you were all good friends?’

  ‘No, we said friends of friends.’ Lorcan smiles ruefully. ‘When you get to our age it’s astonishing how quickly time goes by. One day they’re babies. The next they’re off to college.’

  The girl laughs. ‘Yah, well I don’t think this one’ll be off to uni any time soon. I don’t know, about seven or eight, I’d say.’

  It is Beth. Black shadows flicker in the corner of my eyes. For a second I think I might pass out.

  ‘Hello?’ A man stands in the door of the shop. He’s in his fifties, with short, thinning dark hair and a Barbour jacket that’s glistening with rain. It must have started drizzling outside, but I don’t turn and look. I’m transfixed by the man’s gaze. He’s staring at me as if he’s seen a ghost. A second later he recovers with a thin-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘Hello there.’ The man glances from me to the shop girl. His accent is as posh as hers. ‘Are these friends of yours, Franny?’

  I stare at him. It’s as obvious that he is trying to cover his confusion as it is that he has recognized me from somewhere.

  ‘No.’ Franny pouts her perfect lips, flicking her hair back self-consciously. ‘But they know of a friend of yours, Bobs. That guy and his wife who come in every few weeks? They buy toys and colouring things for—’

  ‘I can’t possibly remember every customer we have.’ Bobs rolls his eyes in mock-exasperation, but his face is reddening and there’s an undeniable look of panic in his eyes.

  He knows who I am. He knows I have a connection to Art. I tense and glance at Lorcan. I can see from his expression he’s noticed the recognition in Bobs’s eyes too. Lorcan holds out his hand.

  ‘You’re the owner?’ he says.

  Bobs nods. He stares at Lorcan, then shakes his hand. ‘I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage.’

  ‘We were just trying to track down a black silk scarf,’
Lorcan says smoothly.

  ‘Your assistant here . . .’ I nod towards Franny then hold my phone out to Bobs. ‘She seems to think you know this man quite well, that he’s a regular customer.’ My heart thumps. I know I’m throwing caution to the wind by being so blatant in my questioning. Lorcan casts me an anxious glance.

  Bobs rubs his hands together. He looks nervous. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says.

  ‘You’re kidding, Bobs.’ Franny’s voice from the counter expresses confusion and surprise. ‘You do know him. So does Bitsy. He comes in with—’

  ‘Would you check the stock delivery in the van, Franny?’ Bobs interrupts. ‘The schedule is on the front. Last time they sent too many gel-pen sets so we need to make sure this order’s correct.’

  ‘You want me to check the stock before you’ve brought it inside?’ Franny pouts, looking both put out and surprised.

  ‘Yes.’ Bobs stands by the door. The atmosphere grows tenser still.

  Franny lopes sulkily across the shop to the front door. Lorcan holds it open for her. ‘Will I help you with the stuff in the van?’ he says.

  ‘No.’ Bobs’s head jerks up. His tone verges on the aggressive. He quickly smiles, holding out his arms in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Sorry, but if you’re not staff, I’m not insured. Health and safety, you know what it’s like.’

  Lorcan catches my eye. I’m certain he’s thinking the same as me: Bobs is lying from his balding head down to his well-polished brogues.

  As Franny disappears into the rain, I turn on Bobs.

  ‘How do you know Art?’ I say. Bobs shakes his head. ‘I don’t.’

  I glance at Lorcan. In a second he’s across the room, towering over Bobs.

  ‘We know you’re lying,’ he hisses. ‘Why are you protecting him?’

  Bobs backs away. ‘You have to go,’ he says shakily. ‘Please leave the shop or . . . or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’ I say. ‘Or you’ll call the police?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Bobs insists. ‘And yes, if you don’t leave I will call the police.’

  I want to call his bluff but the memory of my recent encounter with Sergeant Manning is still fresh in my head. Lorcan and I don’t have any more solid evidence against either Art or Rodriguez than we did two days ago.

  I glance out of the window, where Franny is half-visible behind the van doors. Right now she is our best bet.

  I dart closer to Lorcan, tugging him away from Bobs. I lean up and whisper in his ear: ‘Keep Bobs here a minute.’ Then I walk out of the shop. Behind me I can hear the two men arguing, but I head straight over to Franny. A misty rain shrouds my hair and coat and the air is cold and damp, but I pay this no attention. I’m fixed on Franny. She’s still standing at the back of the van, checking the contents of one of the cardboard boxes inside against a list on a clipboard – and looking irritated.

  I go up to her. ‘Franny?’

  She glances over.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’d be really grateful if you could tell me everything you remember about the man in the shop and his family. There was just one child, right?’

  She nods, looking over my shoulder at Bobs, who is still inside the shop, clearly arguing with Lorcan.

  ‘Yes, but my boss obviously doesn’t want me to talk to you about it. Why are you so interested anyway?’

  ‘What about Bitsy?’ I say quickly. ‘She’s your boss too. Maybe she wouldn’t mind. Please.’

  Franny gives a little snort. ‘If Bobs minds a little, then Bitsy will go ballistic.’ She looks at me. ‘Why is this so important? I thought you said you were just looking for a scarf?’

  I look her in the eye. ‘I lied,’ I say. ‘That man in the picture is my husband.’

  Franny’s eyes widen. ‘Your husband?’ she says. ‘Then who’s the woman who comes in with him? They look like a couple and they’re definitely the parents. I’ve heard the—’

  ‘She’s mine.’ As I say the words the reality hits me and my voice cracks. ‘The little girl they are with is my daughter.’

  Franny stares at me. ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’ My heart thumps. ‘She’s . . . she’d be almost eight, like you said. I don’t . . .’ I stop, unable to admit that I have no idea exactly what my own child looks like. I say what I think Franny will find easiest to get her head around. ‘My husband has taken her . . . my daughter . . .’

  Franny shakes her head. ‘Then it’s not your husband or your child,’ she says.

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see Bobs trying to get to the door and Lorcan forcing him back. I don’t have much time here and I’m struggling to cope with what Franny is saying.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say, feeling sick to my stomach. I shove the phone with the photo of Art under her nose again. ‘This is the man you’ve seen here, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Franny nods vigorously. ‘But the child he was with was a boy.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A boy.

  ‘No.’ I grab Franny’s arm. She must be mistaken. ‘Maybe it was a little girl with a short haircut . . . young children can look—’

  ‘No way,’ Franny insists. ‘He was wearing a Woodholme sweatshirt. It’s a boys’ school.’

  I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of what she is saying.

  ‘But you said you saw them the Saturday before last,’ I say, shaking her arm. ‘Why would he be wearing school uniform at the weekend?’

  Franny frowns. ‘Woodholme’s a private prep school. I’ve got friends who went there. They do Saturday school.’

  I let go of her arm, the sick feeling in my stomach raging up into my throat. My heart is racing so fast I feel like I might keel over. The van has disappeared into a black blur at the edge of my vision. I’m going to be sick, I’m sure of it.

  I don’t understand . . . it doesn’t make sense . . . my baby is a girl . . .

  And then the black blur mists up in front of my eyes and I pass out.

  ‘Gen?’ It’s Lorcan’s voice. ‘Gen, are you okay?’

  Fingers are smoothing damp hair from my wet face. The ground is cold under my body, raindrops falling in a mist.

  I open my eyes to find Lorcan gazing anxiously down at me. ‘Gen?’ he says.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ I said. ‘It isn’t Beth at all, it’s some other child.’

  ‘What?’ Lorcan frowns. ‘What are you talking about?’

  I struggle to sit up. The back of my head is sore where I must have banged it and I still feel sick. I lean over my knees, letting the nausea ebb away. I’ve only fainted once in my life before – at a bar on my hen night. I’d barely eaten anything during the weeks leading up to the wedding and I couldn’t cope with all the booze. It was Hen who looked after me then – insisting I went straight home with her in a taxi. My wedding was a few days later. Hen stood with me, my only bridesmaid. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  I breathe out slowly, feeling the nausea pass. ‘Where’re Bobs and the girl from the shop?’ I mumble.

  ‘Inside.’ Lorcan strokes my back. ‘When I saw you faint, I rushed out here and Bobs called Franny in then bolted the door, put the Closed sign up and disappeared through to the back.’

  I look at him.

  ‘I know.’ He grimaces. ‘That guy is guilty as hell about something. God, you look pale,’ he says, wiping rain off his face. ‘Can you stand up? Are you hurt? Let’s get you in the car.’

  I let him help me to my feet and over to the car. I sit inside, shivering in my damp clothes. Lorcan reaches round and grabs a fleece from the back seat.

  ‘Cover yourself with this,’ he orders.

  I drape it over my wet coat and lean back against the headrest.

  ‘What did you mean, it was a different child?’ Lorcan asks.

  I explain what Franny told me. ‘So you see, it’s a boy. Not Beth. Not my Beth.’ I close my eyes, trying to let this revelation sink in. I honestly believed I was getting close to an understanding of w
hat had really happened to her, and now I’m as far away as ever.

  ‘A boy?’ Lorcan frowns. ‘How does that fit?’

  ‘It doesn’t.’ I gulp as the shocking enormity of Art’s deception rises inside me again. ‘Art must have had someone from the beginning . . . from before he even met me. A whole other life . . . family . . .’

  My thoughts dart back to Hen. Of all my friends, she has known Art the longest. She has talked to him behind my back and kept things from me and she has a son the same age as Beth would have been. She might be married to Rob now, but is it possible she has some kind of double life with Nat and Art down here? I can’t for the life of me see how it could be so, but . . .

  ‘Maybe it’s someone I know,’ I say. ‘Someone I’ve known for a long time.’

  ‘No.’ Lorcan shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Gen, but that’s crazy. Think about it. When you met him Art was completely obsessed with his business, wasn’t he? Even if he has a second family now, there’s no way he had time for one back then.’

  ‘Then it’s her child and Art comes to see them both. Either way, Art has another family. Maybe it’s Charlotte West. She lives near here, after all. And I know she called Art all those times. Jesus, she came to our house and he was pissed off with her. Maybe they were together then it finished and now she’s stalking him.’ I realize my fists are clenched, and release them.

  Lorcan makes a face. ‘I don’t know, it sounds very convoluted. I mean, if Art really does have someone else, why stay in his marriage?’ He spreads his hands on the steering wheel of the car.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I close my eyes. ‘All I know is that the child Art comes here to see isn’t Beth.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Lorcan says. ‘Suppose it is “Beth”? Suppose they made it up?’

  ‘Made what up?’ I open my eyes. What is he talking about? ‘You can’t pretend that a girl is really a boy, not all the way to eight years old. The school would know for a start and—’

  ‘I don’t mean that Art and the other woman made up Beth was a boy,’ Lorcan explains. He runs his hands through his damp hair. ‘Suppose they made up Beth was a girl? Suppose, in fact, your baby was a boy all along?’