Keep Your Eyes on Me

by Sam Blake

  Sam Blake is a pseudonym for Vanessa Fox O’Loughlin, the founder of The Inkwell Group publishing consultancy and the hugely popular national writing resources website Writing.ie. She is Ireland’s leading literary scout and has assisted many award-winning and bestselling authors to publication. Vanessa has been writing fiction since her husband set sail across the Atlantic for eight weeks and she had an idea for a book.

  Also by Sam Blake

  Little Bones

  In Deep Water

  No Turning Back

  First published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2020 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Sam Blake, 2020

  The moral right of Sam Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 838 0

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 841 0

  Printed in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  For Sandra – without whose magic nothing would add up

  And Emmet – the reader all writers would kill for

  (and who was born to play Hamlet)

  ‘People do not change, they are merely revealed’

  – Anne Enright

  Chapter 1

  THE SUDDEN POUNDING on the front door was followed by repeated ringing of the doorbell. Lily Power pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose and looked up from the newspaper she’d been reading. The ringing didn’t stop. Or the thumping. She put her mug of tea down on the kitchen table with a crack. What the—?

  She wasn’t expecting anyone. And how had someone got through the street door and found their way up five floors to the tiny staircase that led to her attic flat? Fear crackled through her as the banging started again. Whoever it was, was clearly hitting a ten on their own panic scale.

  This was central London, only a two-minute walk from the Euston Road, and Lily was alone. Both her flatmates had left first thing this morning; she’d heard them clattering in the kitchen, then the front door slamming. Twice.

  She was all on her own and there was some lunatic at the front door.

  Panic began to rise and Lily felt her mouth go dry. She’d literally just been reading about the increase in violent crime in London, about moped gangs and stabbings. About addicts who called to the door and mugged the householder before robbing the place. Was that what was happening now? It was already dusky outside, would be dark soon. Lily felt her chest tightening.

  The banging stopped as suddenly as it had started, as if the person was exhausted. After all the noise, the silence gaped.

  Lily slipped out of her chair, the sound of her own heartbeat drowning out any noises that might be coming from the other side of the door, along with the usually comforting distant roar of traffic and the creak of the old building.

  She tiptoed across to the open kitchen door, the lino cold on her bare feet, her toenails painted a deep purple that matched the faded floral carpet in the narrow hallway. Her earrings tangled in her long auburn hair as she tipped her head to hear better.

  Could she hear someone crying?

  Suddenly there was another thump on the front door. Low down, near the floor. Lily felt herself jump what felt like a foot in the air. Who the hell was it?

  If someone was really coming to rob the place, would they bang on the door? What if one of her flatmates or someone from one of the flats downstairs had been attacked and needed help? Lily couldn’t just leave them out there if something was wrong. What if they’d collapsed and were lying bleeding on the doorstep?

  She tried to curb her overactive imagination; it had a tendency to run off on its own and right now it was in overdrive.

  Tiptoeing down the corridor to the front door, she peeked through the spyhole. She couldn’t see anything, but she could definitely hear something. The snuffle of silent sobs?

  Christ, she was going to have to open it. What if someone was lying out there injured? The last thump had sounded weaker, desperate, somehow.

  Putting on the heavy safety chain as silently as she could, Lily held her breath and began to ease the door open, immediately feeling a heavy weight leaning against it, low down. The chain rattled taut.

  ‘Thank God …’ The voice was harsh and husky, but very familiar. She felt the weight lift from the door as the person on the other side moved away.

  Jesus Christ.

  Flicking off the safety chain Lily pulled the door open to find her brother Jack sitting slumped on the floor. His white dress shirt was open at the neck, and a black bow tie hung loose under the collar. His suit was filthy, and his fringe, always too long, fell into bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Oh, Lily.’ His voice was little more than a croak. Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t just called to her through the door? As he turned to face her, he burst into tears.

  Lily’s heart hit the floor. This was her gorgeous, good-looking, first-class-honours brother who never had to work for anything but who fought a constant battle with the storm clouds of depression. Brilliance had a flip side. When he shone it was dazzling, but when the weather changed … He’d been doing so well recently, making wonderful finds for the family shop and loving meeting new customers.

  ‘What on earth’s happened? Are you hurt?’ The words came out of her mouth as they went through her head.

  Lily bent down to haul him to his feet, manoeuvring to hold him up as she put his arm over her shoulders. The corridor was barely wide enough for them both but she half-dragged him into the kitchen, while also trying to see if he was bleeding. Had he been stabbed?

  ‘Tell me what’s happened to you?’

  Collapsing into the chair she’d just vacated, Jack put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. She could barely hear when he spoke.

  ‘Not me. The shop. I’ve lost the shop. It’s gone. Everything’s gone.’

  Her arm resting across his shoulders, Lily looked at him hard. He wasn’t making sense, and he smelled like an industrial distillery, which was obviously a contributing factor. How could he have lost the shop? You couldn’t lose a shop: it was bricks and mortar. What sort of party had he been at to end up in this state? Was he hallucinating? Had he taken drugs?

  Rubbing his back, she skirted the table and leaning to flick on the kettle, she reached for the instant coffee. She needed him to sober up and tell her exactly what was going on.

  Turning back to him as she waited for the kettle to boil, Lily was hit by a deep feeling of dread. His face was buried in his arms on the table now, and from the creases, it looked like he’d slept in his suit. She glanced at the clock – it was after four in the afternoon. Where had he been since he’d woken up in this state?

  The kettle clicked off behind her and Lily made the coffee, strong, putting it down in front of him. The dread was turning to panic, her stomach churning and a dull pain spreading across her forehead.
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  But she knew she needed to keep calm. Whatever had happened, Jack was falling apart. One of them needed to stay in control.

  ‘Have some coffee and start at the beginning.’

  Jack slowly raised his head, avoiding her eyes, his gaze firmly fixed on the mug. He put his hands around the thick earthenware like it was a lifebuoy.

  ‘I lost the shop.’ His voice was still little more than a croak. ‘Edward Croxley invited me to a poker game and—’

  ‘But you don’t play poker?’

  Jack cleared his throat. ‘I do sometimes. With the guys from school. Usually the top stake’s a hundred quid.’

  ‘A hundred quid?’ Lily couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice.

  Jack didn’t answer, just rubbed his hand over his face and pushed his thick strawberry blond fringe out of his eyes. As if he hadn’t heard her, he continued, ‘I don’t know how but I ended up putting the shop down in the game. I had a winning hand, I know I did, but then Croxley produced this running flush.’ He grimaced as if he was back there in the room, looking at the cards spread out on the table.

  ‘Croxley? You mean the Edward Croxley who used to organise those rave parties and got arrested?’

  Jack nodded slowly. ‘He only got a suspended sentence for possession in the end. He deals in art now.’

  Lily looked at him. ‘Only?’ Then it began to sink in. ‘You bet Grandpa’s shop? In a game of cards, and you lost it?’

  ‘I wanted to die when I woke up and realised.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’ve been standing on Waterloo Bridge for hours looking at the water, trying to work out how to tell you. It was so dark. Like it was waiting for me. It felt easier than— Oh, Christ.’ He ran his hand across his eyes.

  Lily adjusted her glasses and shook her head, hearing the words but not quite taking them in. ‘How? I mean, how can he have the shop?’

  ‘He made me write a promissory note. It was witnessed by the other guys in the game; one of them is a barrister. I had to give him the keys.’ His voice was so low she could barely hear him.

  ‘But all your stuff?’

  ‘Will probably be in bin bags on the pavement by now.’

  ‘And what about George?’

  ‘Oh, Christ, I never thought of George. I haven’t even fed him today.’ Jack hid his face in his hands again, his shoulders heaving. ‘I’m such a total fuck-up.’

  Lily took off her glasses, laying them on the counter, and pushed her fingers into her hair, pulling it back off her face and holding it tightly at the back of her head, trying to steady herself. Her stomach was a tight ball of shock and fear, making her feel really sick. She looked at him, trying to find something positive to say. This wasn’t the time for shouting or recriminations – yelling at him wouldn’t help anything. She could see he felt as bad as he looked. He knew exactly what the consequence of this was. He’d lost his home, his job, the family business – a fourth-generation family business.

  And he’d forgotten about Grandpa’s cat.

  It couldn’t really get much worse.

  Lily drew in a deep breath, fighting the nausea, trying to focus on what she could do to make this better. She needed time to think. But time was one thing she didn’t have.

  ‘Jack, I have to go to New York in the morning for this interview, but I’ll change my ticket so I get home earlier and we’ll sort this out.’ She picked up her glasses and put them back on, gripping the back of the chair hard as if it was a life buoy. ‘But first I need to find George and bring him here, and you need to eat. There’s a pizza in the freezer – I’ll stick it in the oven. You can sleep on the sofa here tonight and then have my room while I’m away. I’ll call that solicitor that sorted out Grandpa’s will and see what he says.’

  Jack looked at his coffee cup again. ‘He won’t be able to do anything. Croxley got me pissed and cheated me out of the shop, and I was such a fucking idiot, I let him. I should have jumped. I couldn’t even do that right.’

  Chapter 2

  VITTORIA DEVINE FLUNG her cabin case onto the cream jacquard duvet cover and reefed open the zip, catching her nail in the process.

  ‘Merda.’

  Reacting as much to her tone as to the unexpected arrival of the suitcase, Tchaikovsky, her huge black cat, dove off the bed, where he’d been sleeping, and disappeared under the dressing table. Vittoria barely noticed. White-hot rage was shooting through every vein, making her head pound. Marcus always joked that she exploded like Mount Etna at the slightest inconvenience, her Sicilian temper much too big to be contained in such a slight person. And right now that was exactly how she felt.

  But this time it wasn’t just about him not coming home for dinner.

  How could this even be happening?

  The moment Vittoria had ended her call to the detective in London, she’d known she needed to get out of the house and out of Dublin. She needed to think. To really think this time. The plans she’d made so far hadn’t gone the way she’d wanted at all, and now this? This was a whole new level of treachery. She ran both her hands into her dark glossy hair and closed her eyes tightly.

  After everything, how could Marcus have done this to her?

  She’d known something was going on, something more serious than all the other times. She wasn’t sure why – maybe it was the calls, the absences: he’d been spending longer than usual in London at ‘meetings’ between flights for months now. Like today – he was supposed to be coming home this afternoon but he’d suddenly been called into a meeting apparently, and it was someone’s leaving do on Friday night so he wouldn’t be back until late Saturday. Vittoria scowled, remembering their hurried conversation following his text this morning. Even when he was at home in Dublin, he was decidedly distracted. She’d had a quiet word with Aidan Kelly, his best friend – well, he was friends with them both – but he hadn’t been able to tell her much. Then, a couple of months ago, it had suddenly hit her, the dual realisation this could be a serious affair and that she couldn’t take any more.

  And worse, she couldn’t simply leave him.

  Their prenup ring-fenced Marcus’s family properties and money, regardless of the reason for the split. She hadn’t looked at it in years but she knew it meant she’d have nothing. She should have known when she signed that she was being a total idiot. And now she was trapped like a bird in a jewelled cage, the bars legal documents weighted in favour of her husband, preventing her from taking her half of his family money, no matter why she left. She was only twenty-eight, for God’s sake – she couldn’t live like this.

  Vittoria stared at her open suitcase, her mind whirling. Her first effort to find a solution had already been a total disaster.

  Merda.

  Hiring the detective had seemed like her only option after that, but what he’d turned up was so much worse than she’d imagined.

  How could Marcus get involved with someone who would trap him like this? Like this?

  Now she had to come up with a proper plan. One that worked – one that would save her sanity. And she needed to get away, to get some headspace so she could concentrate on making it work; she couldn’t afford another screw-up.

  Vittoria picked up her phone from the bed and dialled the office. She hated to let down clients but she needed some time out. She couldn’t help with anyone else’s mental health unless she was in a sound place herself. And right now she felt like she was standing on the edge of a precipice, unknown waters churning below her. Her receptionist answered on the first ring.

  ‘The Devine Practice.’

  ‘Ruby, would you cancel my appointments for tomorrow and Friday, move them to Monday? I think there are only a couple, nothing serious.’ Vittoria fought to keep her voice calm.

  If her receptionist was surprised, she didn’t show it. ‘Of course, will do. Will you be on the phone?’

  ‘Only for an emergency.’

  ‘Yana was on just after you left – she said something about an article coming out this weekend? To remind
you in case we got swamped in calls.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about that. It’s about her anorexia almost ending her career. I’ll call her. She was OK otherwise?’

  ‘Yes, very chirpy. We were chatting for ages. She’s absolutely loving being in Covent Garden. She’s sending you tickets to the opening night of Swan Lake – it’s next month, I think she said. She’s so excited – she said rehearsals are gruelling but it’s a wonderful interpretation.’

  ‘That’s good news at least, and thank you, Ruby. I’ll be in on Monday.’

  Vittoria ended the call and stared at her phone for a moment. She spent her days listening to people’s problems, women like Yana, helping them through the minefield of body image, relationships and celebrity, and here she was, trapped and in trouble, and she didn’t know where to begin. She still couldn’t believe what she’d heard this evening. The absolute horror of it. The detective was so meticulous. Too meticulous.

  Women didn’t get pregnant by accident these days. That just didn’t happen – had they planned it together? Maybe Marcus had finally found a bit of skirt that was more than mistress material. Maybe he’d been looking for a baby mama all these years and that’s what all the affairs had been about.

  Vittoria felt suddenly very, very sick. She couldn’t let her head go there, couldn’t think that that could be a possibility.

  As if echoing her mood, she suddenly felt the muscles in her lower back twinge and begin to knot. She rubbed the spot and stretched, waiting to see if it would spasm. The trauma of the car accident was locked away deep inside, but her body wouldn’t let her forget it. That or her shattered dreams that one day she would have children who would sail and ride and maybe dance, like she had. Memories began to bubble to the surface, and suddenly she was right back there as if it was happening all over again: their argument over him chatting up some girl at the party, her storming to his open-topped sports car, so angry she couldn’t get her seat belt buckled.

  They hadn’t even been dating for long.