Read Online Close My Eyes by Sophie McKenzie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sophie McKenzie
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‘Jesus Christ, I hope
John Vaizey, or whoever sent that woman to lie to you, rots in hell for giving you false hope.’ He slams his hand, flat, against the wall above the bed.
I jump, my breath catching in my throat. Art
never
loses his cool. He’s always absolutely in control. I stare at him, my whole body tensed. I’ve never seen him so angry. And
then, as I watch – half-terrified, half-astonished – Art sinks down beside me on the bed.
‘I’m sorry, Gen.’ He puts his head in his hands and, when he looks up, there are tears in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry but you have to let this go now because . . .
because . . . the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was walk into that room and face you after our baby had died. And I’m not – do you hear me? – I’m not letting that
moment destroy our future like it destroyed the past.’
He stops, his chest heaving. For a moment I feel guilty. I have to keep remembering that Art lost Beth too.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
A beat passes.
Then Art nods, ‘Not tea though, champagne,’ he insists. I can hear him making himself sound cheerful again. ‘We’ve got things to celebrate.’
Champagne is the last thing I want, but Art is back in ebullient mode and I know from experience it’s easier not to resist. ‘Okay, you get the bottle and some glasses,’ I say,
smiling back. ‘I’ll get dressed.’
Art raises his eyebrows, a flicker of lust in his expression. ‘No need for that,’ he says, tracing his finger across my bare shoulder.
‘Maybe later . . .’ I smile and pull away from him. ‘Go on downstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.’
Art leaves. I hurry into jeans and a sweatshirt and follow him down to the kitchen. I feel disoriented from sleeping the whole afternoon away. Art has already set two champagne flutes on the
table. As I stand there he pops the bottle he’s fetched and pours two glasses. He hands one to me, then raises his own.
‘To the future,’ he says. ‘
Our
future.’
I smile again and take a tiny sip of the chilled fizz. I sit down and Art comes up behind me, sets his glass down, and starts massaging my shoulders. ‘Listen, Gen,’ he says. ‘I
know it’s hard, but you have to put all the rubbish that woman said out of your mind. Let’s make today the day we start again.’
The fading light coming through the kitchen window catches the smudges around the rims of the two champagne flutes on the table.
Art picks up his glass again.
‘Do you think we should report her to the police?’ I ask.
‘What for?’ Art dismisses my suggestion with a flick of his hand. ‘There’s no proof. We don’t even know her real name, or where she lives.’
I think of the scrap of paper with Lucy’s mobile number scrunched up in my coat pocket. ‘Right,’ I say.
Art strokes my hair. ‘I think what we should do is forget she ever existed. We’ll do ICSI and you
will
get pregnant and we
will
have a baby.’ He holds his
glass out towards me and grins. ‘To hope.’
I hesitate. I know Art’s is the logical way forward but I
want
to believe the impossible. I
want
to believe that Beth is out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her.
I touch my glass against his.
‘To hope,’ I say.
CHAPTER FOUR
I wake with a start from a bad dream. Anxiety clutches at my chest. Something’s gone . . . something’s missing . . . Beth . . . always Beth . . .
As the sensation fades, I grope for the clock beside my bed: 4.15 a.m.
Crap
. Art is snoring gently beside me. He never wakes early. He never has trouble sleeping. Most annoyingly, he
never takes longer than a few minutes to fall asleep.
I get out of bed and pad downstairs to the kitchen. I know from experience that once I’m awake at this time, I might as well get up. I switch on the kettle and fetch a mug, a tea bag and
some milk.
I’ve dreamed about Beth many times in the past few years and though I can never remember the details, I know that
John Vaizey, or whoever sent that woman to lie to you, rots in hell for giving you false hope.’ He slams his hand, flat, against the wall above the bed.
I jump, my breath catching in my throat. Art
never
loses his cool. He’s always absolutely in control. I stare at him, my whole body tensed. I’ve never seen him so angry. And
then, as I watch – half-terrified, half-astonished – Art sinks down beside me on the bed.
‘I’m sorry, Gen.’ He puts his head in his hands and, when he looks up, there are tears in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry but you have to let this go now because . . .
because . . . the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was walk into that room and face you after our baby had died. And I’m not – do you hear me? – I’m not letting that
moment destroy our future like it destroyed the past.’
He stops, his chest heaving. For a moment I feel guilty. I have to keep remembering that Art lost Beth too.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
A beat passes.
Then Art nods, ‘Not tea though, champagne,’ he insists. I can hear him making himself sound cheerful again. ‘We’ve got things to celebrate.’
Champagne is the last thing I want, but Art is back in ebullient mode and I know from experience it’s easier not to resist. ‘Okay, you get the bottle and some glasses,’ I say,
smiling back. ‘I’ll get dressed.’
Art raises his eyebrows, a flicker of lust in his expression. ‘No need for that,’ he says, tracing his finger across my bare shoulder.
‘Maybe later . . .’ I smile and pull away from him. ‘Go on downstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.’
Art leaves. I hurry into jeans and a sweatshirt and follow him down to the kitchen. I feel disoriented from sleeping the whole afternoon away. Art has already set two champagne flutes on the
table. As I stand there he pops the bottle he’s fetched and pours two glasses. He hands one to me, then raises his own.
‘To the future,’ he says. ‘
Our
future.’
I smile again and take a tiny sip of the chilled fizz. I sit down and Art comes up behind me, sets his glass down, and starts massaging my shoulders. ‘Listen, Gen,’ he says. ‘I
know it’s hard, but you have to put all the rubbish that woman said out of your mind. Let’s make today the day we start again.’
The fading light coming through the kitchen window catches the smudges around the rims of the two champagne flutes on the table.
Art picks up his glass again.
‘Do you think we should report her to the police?’ I ask.
‘What for?’ Art dismisses my suggestion with a flick of his hand. ‘There’s no proof. We don’t even know her real name, or where she lives.’
I think of the scrap of paper with Lucy’s mobile number scrunched up in my coat pocket. ‘Right,’ I say.
Art strokes my hair. ‘I think what we should do is forget she ever existed. We’ll do ICSI and you
will
get pregnant and we
will
have a baby.’ He holds his
glass out towards me and grins. ‘To hope.’
I hesitate. I know Art’s is the logical way forward but I
want
to believe the impossible. I
want
to believe that Beth is out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her.
I touch my glass against his.
‘To hope,’ I say.
CHAPTER FOUR
I wake with a start from a bad dream. Anxiety clutches at my chest. Something’s gone . . . something’s missing . . . Beth . . . always Beth . . .
As the sensation fades, I grope for the clock beside my bed: 4.15 a.m.
Crap
. Art is snoring gently beside me. He never wakes early. He never has trouble sleeping. Most annoyingly, he
never takes longer than a few minutes to fall asleep.
I get out of bed and pad downstairs to the kitchen. I know from experience that once I’m awake at this time, I might as well get up. I switch on the kettle and fetch a mug, a tea bag and
some milk.
I’ve dreamed about Beth many times in the past few years and though I can never remember the details, I know that
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