Never Close Your Eyes (63 page)

Evie pulled the door to and walked up the next flight of stairs to her bedroom. She opened her wardrobe and peered in. What the hell was she going to wear? She wished, now, that she'd bought something new. There again, it might be too obvious. She didn't want Steve thinking that she was excited about seeing him or anything.

She pushed a few hangers aside, pulled out the French Connection top that she'd picked up in the sales last summer and examined it critically. It was made of a fine, cream-coloured cotton material with thin, barely visible silver stripes. It had a V-neck with a soft ruffle around the edge and no sleeves. She could wear it with her black, cashmere cardigan and jeans. Perfect. Pretty and fun, she decided, without being provocative.

She undressed quickly and turned the shower on next door. The warm water whooshed over her, making her skin tingle with pleasure. She lowered her head so that the jet hit her in just the spot where her neck ached. She could almost feel the muscles and ligaments starting to lengthen and relax. They were practically purring.

She washed herself carefully all over with the olive-oil shower cream that Freya had given her for her birthday, thinking all the while about Steve and what tonight would bring. He'd called her so many times since that Wednesday when Carol had dropped the bombshell – both about him and herself. At first Evie had refused even to speak to him; she was far too upset. Then, gradually, like a queen granting an audience, she'd allowed him two and, later, five minutes of her time.

In the end, she supposed, he'd simply beaten her into submission. She'd felt obliged to listen just to get shot of him, except that once she'd heard what he had to say, her mood had begun to soften somewhat.

It was the lies, she'd said, that were so unforgivable. ‘But I felt I had to lie or you'd dump me.'

Why, she'd asked, was he still living with the girlfriend anyway if, as he'd claimed, it was all over? ‘She's the mother of my child. I felt guilty. I felt I had to get them settled into somewhere new before I could make the final break.'

Were they still sleeping together? ‘No.' She didn't believe him. ‘Well, just once or twice,' he admitted. ‘But it didn't mean anything. It was just to keep the peace, really.'

Were you, she wondered, ever going to bother to tell me that you and she were still living together when we met? ‘Of course – eventually,' he replied. ‘It's you I love, Evie. You're the woman for me.'

That was the bit that really got her. Love. She needed that. She felt so alone, now that Helen had had the baby. Neil hardly ever dropped by these days. He only came by arrangement, to see the children and babysit when Evie was going out. It's what she'd wanted – for him to leave her alone. But now that it had happened there was an empty space in her heart that she thought nothing could ever fill.

Carol was desperate to step in and plug the gap but Evie wasn't having any of it. Since Carol had broken the news, Evie had felt as if she were grieving – for the mother she never had and once thought she so desperately wanted. All these years, she realised, she'd had this picture in her mind of what her real mother would be like: warm and caring, beautiful, clever, faultless.

Her adoptive parents had told her virtually nothing about her past. Whenever she asked, they'd look all hurt and say: ‘Aren't we good enough?' So Evie had woven fantastic stories about her birth mother. Maybe she was a famous actress – or an Eastern European princess! And now Carol had come along and shattered the dream.

Mad Carol, who'd been following her around, taking photographs of her and the children. Evie still had her manuscript. She'd stuffed it under the bed; she couldn't face looking at it. In some ways Evie did feel sorry for her: what a wasted life, forever yearning for the one thing that she couldn't have. But the fact was that Carol had abandoned Evie, left her to her inadequate parents. And something else was troubling Evie, too: Carol's desperate need. Evie had this feeling that if she let Carol into her life, if she opened up her heart and home to her, Carol would slowly swallow her up. For self-preservation, for her own sanity, she felt that she must keep her birth mother at arms' length.

Evie finished getting dressed and sat down to put on her make-up. The top looked nice, she decided, examining herself in the mirror. It was slightly transparent, but with her white lacy bra underneath you couldn't see too much.

‘Bye!' she called as she hurried past Freya's room. She was running late. ‘Michael will be back from Isaac's at around eight p.m.'

She caught the bus a few stops up the road to the parade of shops. She'd decided to suggest somewhere close to home – Steve could do the travelling. She was ten minutes late but he hadn't arrived yet so she waited for him on a bench outside the Indian restaurant. She didn't want to sit inside on her own. It was a warm evening and she'd enjoy watching the world go by.

There was a fair amount of traffic on the road: people heading off for their Saturday night out, probably. She watched, with some interest, while a youth in a hoodie came out of the off-licence carrying a four-pack of cider.

‘It's party time!' he shouted down his mobile and punched the air, only to be stopped by a pair of what turned out to be plain-clothed police officers. They asked his name and age and he admitted that he was only sixteen – too young to be buying alcohol. She could hear the conversation quite clearly. He also handed over a packet of cigarettes and some fake ID.

He had an intelligent face and didn't sound like a delinquent. But he'd been caught red-handed. The police officers put on purple gloves and frisked him. They tipped his cider down the drain, confiscated the cigarettes and fake ID and took down his name and address. ‘We'll be writing to your parents,' they said sternly.

The youth looked stricken. Evie felt almost sorry for him but he had been silly, drawing attention to himself like that. He'd never do it again, that's for sure.

She checked the time on her mobile phone. Steve was half an hour late. She'd been so engrossed in the hoodie incident that she hadn't realised. A familiar sense of misery washed over her; surely he wouldn't stand her up again? She couldn't imagine what excuse he could possibly come up with this time.

She checked her text messages to make sure that she hadn't missed one from him. There was nothing. She was beginning to feel cold now. The sun had disappeared completely and her black cardigan was only thin. She wondered whether to go home; she'd give him ten more minutes. The train might have been delayed. Maybe there was signal failure or something. But he could have rung.

‘Evie!' She swivelled round. A handsome, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man was walking towards her carrying a bottle of wine in each hand and one under his left arm. He had a crisp-looking, pale-pink shirt on which was rolled up to reveal strong forearms.

His silver hair was neatly cut around the ears and his tanned face suggested that he'd been abroad somewhere – or he spent a lot of time outside.

She was taken aback. ‘Bill!' she said, standing up. ‘What are you doing here?'

Bill raised a hand with one of the bottles in it. ‘Going to a party,' he said. ‘Might I ask the same of you?'

‘I was waiting for someone,' she replied. She noticed that Bill's eyes were very blue. ‘But he's late and I can't be bothered to wait any more.' She shrugged. ‘I think I'll go home.'

Bill cleared his throat. ‘Look, Evie, I'm sorry about Carol, the way you found out. It wasn't fair. I should have talked to you. I wanted to apologise but you were so angry, I couldn't get anywhere near you—'

She raised a hand. ‘Please don't. I was upset, I overreacted. It wasn't your fault that she chose to blurt it out the way she did. Anyway' – she shifted on her feet – ‘you were probably right. It would have been a mistake to tell me just after we'd found Freya. I wouldn't have been able to take it in. I'm sorry I was so cross,' she added.

He shook his head, looked at her quizzically. ‘Have you spoken to Carol since?'

‘I see her at the creative writing group.'

‘How do you feel about her?'

Evie sighed. ‘Angry, shocked, sad. All sorts of things, I guess. I expect we'll have some sort of relationship eventually but I'm not going to be pushed into anything. If she thinks there's going to be a happy-ever-after ending she's sorely mistaken.'

They started to walk towards home. ‘Where's the party?' she asked, only half wanting to know. She suspected that the Ukrainian might figure somewhere in his plans. She was still a regular visitor to his house, though she didn't appear to have moved in yet.

‘Allotment,' he replied. ‘We tend to have one at this time of year – if the weather's good enough.' He nodded at the bottles of wine. ‘Great three-for-one offer at that off-licence.'

‘What have you got growing now – in your allotment?' she asked, mildly interested,

‘Asparagus. Masses of it. I should get a good crop of peaches and greengages this year, too.' He scratched his chin. ‘I need to plant out the French beans and train the runners and I haven't yet prepared the beds for the sweetcorn and tomatoes. I must get a move on.'

Evie giggled. ‘Prepared the beds? It sounds like you're planning to tuck them in and read them a story.'

‘You're not far off actually,' he replied. ‘I don't know about a story but they do like being talked to.'

Evie raised her eyebrows. ‘You talk to your tomatoes and sweetcorn?'

‘Of course,' he said seriously. ‘They thrive on it. By the way, how are the wedding dresses going?'

‘Really well,' Evie said. ‘I put an ad in
Brides-to-Be
magazine and got a very encouraging response. I'm farming them out to a machinist now. I haven't got time to sew them all myself. It's nice that the business is making some money at last. I should have got off my backside ages ago.'

She hadn't even noticed when they got to her garden gate that they'd walked all the way home.

‘Here you are,' he said, hanging back.

Her mobile phone pinged. There was a text message, which she opened. It was from Steve. ‘Running late – sorry. Call me.' She deleted it.

‘What are you going to do now?' Bill asked. She didn't need to tell him who the message was from.

‘Oh,' she shrugged, ‘I'll miss him for a while but I'll get over it. I thought he was The One, you see.' She looked into Bill's blue eyes. ‘But I was completely and utterly wrong.'

Bill smiled. ‘We all get things wrong, Evie. We'd be inhuman if we didn't.'

‘But I was a fool,' she said. ‘I couldn't see what was in front of my nose.'

Bill put the bottles of wine on the pavement beside him. She wondered what he was going to do next. She wasn't sure if he made the first move or she did, but before she knew it they were in each other's arms, her lips pressed against his, his warm, sweet breath on her face. The neighbours might be watching but she didn't care. Let them gossip!

When at last she came up for air there were only two words on her lips: ‘The Ukrainian.'

‘Who? Galina?' he asked, surprised.

‘I thought she was . . . you were . . .'

He laughed. ‘She's a student, you silly thing. I told you. I felt sorry for her and I wanted to help. You didn't really imagine . . . ?'

Evie sighed and rested her cheek against the hollow of his breastbone, the special place that she liked so much – her special place.

She frowned. ‘I don't know anything about T. S. Eliot. Isn't that what she's doing her thesis on?'

‘I'll read you some of his poems if you like, tell you a bit about him.'

‘I'd rather see your allotment first.'

A big grin broke over his handsome face. ‘Really? We don't have to stay long.'

She nodded. ‘Really.'

He picked up the wine, plonked a bottle in each of Evie's hands, took one himself and wrapped the other arm around her shoulders.

‘To the allotment, madam,' he said, guiding her past his house and up the road.

She stopped suddenly. ‘Oh!' she cried. The penny plopped into the well. ‘Bill. William. Is your real name William?'

‘William Edward,' he said proudly. ‘But no one's ever called me that.'

‘A P, a T or a W. Of course!' she squealed. ‘It's Gracchus. Cornelia has to marry Gracchus!'

Bill stared at her. He must have thought she'd gone mad. ‘I beg your pardon?'

Evie smiled at him. ‘Nothing. Well, it is something actually. I've just thought of a brilliant ending for my book.'

‘That's fabulous,' said Bill, giving her a squeeze. ‘I'd love to read it sometime – if I may.'

‘Definitely,' she replied, ‘but right now I want to admire your runner beans and greengages.' She gasped. ‘I hope that didn't sound . . .'

His blue eyes twinkled but he didn't reply.

‘To the allotment,' she added quickly.

Chapter Fifty-Six