Never Close Your Eyes (65 page)

She smiled. ‘It's something I should have done a long time ago, darling,' she whispered. ‘Of course I'm sad that she died. I always will be. But yes, in answer to your question, yes, I think I do feel better.'

‘I've kept the photo,' Tom said. Becca was surprised. She didn't realise that he'd been listening.

‘Which one?'

‘The one of you and Jude in the photo booth.'

‘Good.'

The car fell silent again.

Becca decided that she'd find a frame tomorrow. It would have to be a very small one. Then she'd put it on the mantelpiece, beside the other family photos, where it belonged.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

‘Quiet please, I have an important announcement to make.' Tristram peered over his gold-rimmed spectacles at the seated gathering.

It was the December meeting of the St Barnabas's Creative Writing Group. Six months had passed since the 1 June competition deadline and Evie had virtually forgotten about it. So much had happened since then.

She glanced around her. She had Nic and Becca on either side, as usual. Russell and Jonathan were beside each other in the front row, next to Pamela, in her usual spot bang in the centre.

There was no mousy Angela tonight but Tim, the car enthusiast, was here. Evie had already had a chat with him about how well his Toyota Yaris was running. She was pleased for him, really she was, but she did wish that he wouldn't go on so.

Her own Renault Espace had all but given up the ghost and she found that she could hardly care less. She seemed only to use it for shopping these days and, really, she could order that online. Bill's influence seemed to have rubbed off and she was turning surprisingly green. She tended to cycle or go by bus now.

Several new people had joined the group, perhaps lured by the prospect of future competitions. Tristram said that the one they'd entered had been such a success, with a vast number of entries of a very high standard, that the organisers were already planning another.

Evie turned around quickly and caught sight of Carol right at the back of the class keeping her distance. Good. She seemed to have got the message about giving Evie plenty of space, literally and metaphorically. These days, Carol wouldn't dare make interfering comments about any aspect of Evie's life.

Tristram cleared his throat. ‘I have the results of the creative writing competition.'

An excited ripple ran around the room.

‘And I'm delighted to say,' Tristram went on, ‘that I have some rather good news.'

Evie's mind started to race. She didn't believe for a moment that she'd won anything. She'd finished
The Roman's Wife
with two days to spare and she was pleased, in the end, with what she'd achieved. But she knew in her heart that it wasn't prizewinning material and she doubted very much that she'd find an agent or a publisher. Never mind, it had been a challenge and she was glad that she'd done it. She'd achieved a lot and, in fact, she'd already started researching and writing a second historical romance:
The Viking's Honour
. She felt that, with the experience she'd gained, this one would be an altogether better, more professional product.

‘Can you wait a moment, please?'

There was a rustle of annoyance. Pamela had stood up and was smoothing down her skirt.

Tristram took off his glasses. ‘Really, this is a very inconvenient . . .'

‘I need to powder my nose,' Pamela said, making for the door of the ladies' room at the side of the church hall.

Nic nudged Evie in the ribs. ‘She thinks she's won. Silly old bat. There's no way.'

Becca was sitting very still, her hands in her lap. Evie admired her hair from the side. It was looking very shiny. She'd had a semi-permanent, dark blond tint put in while it grew back to its natural light-brown colour. Then, she said, she thought she might have subtle highlights to disguise the grey beginning to peep through.

The colour looked much better on her. Softer. Her eyebrows were no longer black, either. In fact her whole air had changed. She seemed less pent up, more relaxed in looks and manner. Evie shot her a reassuring smile. She knew that Becca was quietly hopeful about the competition. She seemed very pleased with what she'd written, though she hadn't allowed anyone else to read it.

She was leaving just after Christmas for a new life with Tom and the children in Spain. She'd handed in her notice at work and this was to be a fresh beginning. She and Tom were going to run a small hotel, but Evie realised that Becca must be thinking how wonderful it would be to have the boost of a win under her belt before they left – and an agent, to boot. That way she could begin to take herself seriously as an author and set aside some serious time for writing.

Nic, of course, had scrapped
The Girl from Niger
with nary a backward glance. She, like Evie, had begun something new. She'd still be intrigued, though, Evie thought, to find out who in the writing group, if anyone, had won something. It was all rather thrilling.

They chatted among themselves for a few minutes while they waited for Pamela to reappear. Every now and again Evie could hear Carol's voice rising above the hubbub. She caught the odd phrase: ‘Who does she think she is?'; ‘Selfish nincompoop'. She could imagine whom Carol was discussing. Evie sniggered inwardly. After going through a rather subdued period, Carol seemed to have regained some of her tell-it-as-it-is streak.

At last Pamela reappeared, with lots of lipstick on in a rather startling shade of baby pink. She'd clearly sprayed her stiff grey hair, too. The smell could knock you down at fifty paces. Evie reckoned she must be a fire hazard.

Pamela gave a prim little smile – but no apology for having kept everyone waiting – and sat down again.

‘Now,' said Tristram irritably, ‘let's have no more interruptions, please. I received a letter from the organisers this morning to say that . . .' He looked up from the sheet of paper he was holding in front of him and scanned the entire room, deliberately drawing out the suspense. ‘. . . to say that one of our members has WON THE COMPETITION!'

There was a sharp intake of breath.

Evie jumped up. She couldn't help it. ‘Oh, but who, who? You've got to tell us!'

Pamela swung round and gave her an icy stare. ‘He's coming to that,' she hissed.

Evie sat down again.

‘Patience!' Tristram beamed. He was enjoying his moment of power. ‘I'm coming to that. The winner,' he said, pulling back his shoulders and puffing out his paunch, ‘is someone whose writing style has developed a great deal in the past year.

‘The winner' – he looked up again and smiled: he wasn't going to give the sex away – ‘has a mesmerising style full of fast turns, dynamic leaps and boundless humour. He or she has well and truly mastered the art of “Show Don't Tell”. But most of all,' he went on, ‘the judges praised this person's extraordinary imagination. They said he or she has written, I quote, “a highly inventive debut novel . . . a welcome new voice rising up amongst the great voices.”'

Evie turned to Becca, who was twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger. Nerves. ‘It's not me,' Becca whispered. ‘My writing's good, I think, but I don't have an extraordinary imagination.'

Evie took a quick look at Pamela, who was sitting up, ramrod straight, quivering with anticipation. But did Pamela have it in her to write something ‘highly inventive'? Evie seriously doubted it. Maybe it was Russell, clever old Russell. Though personally she'd always found his work rather obscure.

God, it couldn't be car-mad Tim, could it? Or Jonathan's account of a young man's sexual romp through Spain and Italy? Or maybe it was gloomy old Angela's tome about self-harming.

Tristram took a step forward, drew himself up to his full height and grinned. ‘You've been very patient and now I'm going to tell you the name.'

Evie thought she might be sick.

He straightened his red silk tie at the neck, ran his hand down the length of it and over his ample tum. ‘The winner of the national Creative Writing Competition, 2009 is . . . Carol Tyndall for
Miaow
, her fabulous novella about a houseful of talking and remarkably clever, philosophical cats!'

‘NO!'

All eyes swivelled to the front row.

Pamela had stood up and was leaning right over, practically breathing in Tristram's face. He took a self-preserving step back.

‘No,' she repeated, ‘you've got it wrong.'

Tristram raised a hand. ‘I can assure you . . .'

‘You're not telling me that stupid old fool has won. It's a joke. The whole competition's a complete farce.'

‘Really, Pamela,' Tristram stuttered, ‘this isn't a very nice attitude. One should be noble in defeat.'

‘Pah!'

Pamela turned round to the front, her face pinched with fury. Evie sensed everyone lean back slightly in their chair.

‘I'm leaving,' she snorted, bending down to grab her handbag from underneath her chair, ‘and if you've got any sense you will, too. There's an excellent creative writing group in Surbiton which they've been begging me to join for months but out of loyalty I've said no. But now that I can see how things are run here, how devious and corrupt it all is, I realise that my loyalty has been entirely misplaced.'

‘Wait a minute,' Tristram said, grabbing Pamela's arm, ‘that's not fair, I had nothing whatever to do with the—'

She tried to shake him off. ‘Unhand me at once, sir, or I'll call the police!'

Tristram did as he was told. He looked as if he'd been scorched.

Pamela marched towards the exit, her chin in the air, turning one more time before she opened the door.

‘And if that lunatic creature,' – she nodded in Carol's direction – ‘imagines that she's written a good book she should go and see a doctor. It's a fix, the whole thing's a fix. Goodbye.'

‘To Carol!' said Russell.

Everyone raised a glass. ‘Carol!'

They all took a slurp of champagne.

‘Well, I never imagined this.' Carol grinned, revealing her stained teeth. ‘Not in a million years. I thought if anyone was going to win it would be Becca.'

They'd managed to squash around the long, dark wooden table next to the Christmas tree in the corner of the pub. The entire class had turned up, excluding Angela and Pamela, of course – about fifteen in all.

Becca shook her head. ‘Nah,' she said. ‘Your story's much more inventive. But the last time I spoke to you, back in, what, about March, you said you didn't think you'd finish in time and you were only really doing it for fun, anyway. What happened?'

Carol sipped her drink. ‘I had a big spurt in April.' She glanced at Evie and quickly looked away. ‘Honestly, I think I wrote most of it in a month. The words just flowed. But I'm truly staggered that I've won. I thought the judges would dismiss
Miaow
as too eccentric.'

Evie smiled. ‘They clearly loved it. Well done,' she said, raising her glass again.

Carol looked grateful. ‘Thank you – all. I'd like to buy another couple of bottles of champagne. Would someone mind going up and ordering for me?'

Russell rose.

‘Here's my purse.' Carol delved into her bag, pulled out a battered-looking brown leather purse and thrust it into his hand. ‘See if they have some nice nibbles, too,' she suggested. ‘Or should I say canapés?' There should be enough cash in there. Can't think of a better way to spend it.' She winked. Everyone laughed.

Becca squealed. Evie spun round to look. Becca was pointing at Nic. ‘You've had your braces off! I hadn't even noticed.'

Nic parted her lips to reveal a set of perfect, straight white teeth. ‘Nice, eh?' she grinned. ‘They came off on Tuesday.‘

‘Lovely,' Evie marvelled. ‘You look like a Hollywood film star.'

‘Gorgeous,' Becca agreed. ‘Are you pleased?'

Nic nodded. ‘It's been worth it. I wasn't sure at first because of the discomfort, but I always hated my snaggled tooth.'

Everyone was silent while they examined Nic's dental work.

‘Well,' said Tim, who normally only talked about cars. ‘They look jolly good to me – not that I know anything about that sort of thing.'

Nic smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I feel like a new woman.'

‘A new woman? Ah, that reminds me.' Russell had come back with a cooler containing a bottle of champagne. The other was still on the bar. ‘I had an interesting patient this week,' he said, ‘a very pleasant woman who, er, who used to be a man . . .'