Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3) Page 5

  ‘See him?’ I nod in his direction. ‘I think he’s my protection. He’ll turn round in a minute and check on me.’ I open up my handbag and show her the contents. ‘This is mace and that’s a rape alarm. Dan’s making me carry them. He wanted me to come and talk to you. You were going to find out about the accident sooner or later, and he’s not ready to meet you.’

  She twists the tissues in her fingers. A seagull lands by her feet and begins to pick at a discarded, soggy chip.

  ‘But he will be one day. I know it.’

  She locks eyes with me, as if she’s searching for evidence.

  ‘It’s all true. On my life. But whether you believe me or not, you need to keep this quiet.’

  She blinks a few times, then nods.

  ‘Until this is all sorted, I can’t go anywhere near him. I can’t contact him. I can’t talk to him. And it’s killing me. But if I can do it, then you can do it too. I need you to be patient this time. I need you on my side.’ I take in a deep, jittery lungful of sea air. ‘Promise me, Layla. Say nothing. And don’t text me or call me. I think Boyd’s tapping my phone.’

  The possibilities flash through her eyes.

  ‘I won’t,’ she confirms at last. ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘Well, I’m relying on you. Just don’t let me down.’

  It’s early evening. I’m on another train, nursing yet another coffee. As we wind our way back to London, I gaze at my reflection, wondering who the hell I’m looking at. This morning’s nerves have disappeared. I’ve defied fear and I’ve defied Boyd. I haven’t hidden and I haven’t run. I’m certainly not the woman I used to be.

  But why is that?

  The answer comes immediately.

  Dan.

  An addiction? Yes. Without a doubt. But so much more than that. Since he first exploded into my life, I’ve been high on adrenalin, high on excitement and high on lust. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, if I hadn’t lost myself in the madness, if I hadn’t nudged aside the doubts, then I would never have fallen in love with the man beneath the veneer. And he’s a man who gives me everything I need: love, respect and friendship, support, encouragement, protection, fidelity. The list is endless, each component worth its weight in gold. And mixed together, the final result is priceless – a one-off work of art, just like the necklace. It’s because of him that I’m finally becoming myself, finding a strength I never knew I had. I study my reflection again. That’s who I’m looking at. The Maya Scotton I always wanted to be.

  And now I feel a little sick, a little foolish. I sit back, watching as the fenlands slip past and questions tumble about in my mind. Can I really trust Layla to keep quiet? Or have I just woven a massive weakness into the web? Now that I’ve realised, with absolute clarity, what I’ve found with Dan … have I really just put it all at risk?

  Chapter Four

  Marooned in chaos, I’ve decided that today’s the day for sorting things out. My poor combats and T-shirts must be completely confused. After living it up in a penthouse walk-in wardrobe, they’re back in their usual downmarket surroundings, languishing in my bedroom alongside their snooty Harrods counterparts. Over the past few days, I’ve been slowly unpacking, half-heartedly opening one neatly taped-up box after another and rummaging through the contents, finding everything perfectly folded and rolled. Gina’s obviously been roped in to organising the move. If she could see what I’m doing at the other end, she’d have a coronary. With the wardrobe now at bursting point, I move dresses and skirts from one place to another, sling shoes into a corner and make a pile of handbags under the window. I’m just glad the evening gown hasn’t re-appeared. There’s no room for eight thousand eight hundred pounds-worth of silk in a pokey Camden flat.

  I open up the next box, temporarily halted by the fact that it isn’t filled with clothes. And then I rifle through it, pulling out the laptop Dan gave me, the Kindle from the flight to Bermuda, a whole host of silly things I’ve hoarded from childhood and finally, my jewellery box. Lifting the lid, I discover the sweet pea earrings, jumbled in amongst a pile of cheaper jewellery. Reuniting them with the necklace, I place them carefully in their own section of the jewellery box, and leave the box on top of the chest of drawers. Finally, I pull out a small packet. It has my name written on it, in handwriting I don’t recognise. I open it up and find a message from Clive.

  ‘I can’t sort out the CDs. Don’t know which are yours and which are Dan’s. He’s told me to send you this for now. Track one. Eat this note as soon as you’ve read it!’

  I pull out the CD, a compilation of John Lennon songs, and home in on track one, ‘Woman’. Dan’s favourite song. Immediately, the tears begin to flow.

  ‘You’re crying over a CD?’ Lucy remarks from the doorway.

  ‘It’s just dusty in here.’

  She laughs: a hard, I’ve-had-enough type of laugh.

  ‘You see?’ She points at me. ‘This is what men do to us, the bastards.’ Folding her arms, she surveys the semi-organised chaos through semi-focussed eyes. ‘I’m cooking dinner,’ she announces. ‘And then we’re getting off our faces.’

  ‘But it’s Tuesday.’

  ‘And? What difference does it make?’

  She slams the door behind her, leaving me to stew. I’ve already had enough of post-break-up Lucy. Sober, she’s a nightmare. Drunk, complete hell. Hung-over, a strange mixture of the two. What I need now more than anything else is a serious detox, but judging by the way she’s slurring her words, I’d say she’s already made a pretty good start on the ‘getting off your face’ thing. A quiet evening in with a cup of tea is the last thing on the cards.

  She’s sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by bowls and packets, empty tins and reams of onion skin. Right in front of her, a bag of flour seems to have exploded, sending its contents far and wide. On the hob, a pan filled with a strange, gooey mixture sits next to the frying pan. I take a couple of nervous steps forward, fixated on the goo. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but it’s brown and lumpy and I suspect there’s some sort of meat in there. It all smells a little odd. I turn back to Lucy. Wine glass in hand, she’s currently eyeing up an aubergine.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, tentatively.

  ‘Cooking.’ She slams down the glass and picks up a knife.

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘That’s what everyone calls it.’ She points the knife at the half-destroyed bag of flour. ‘Ingredients.’ And then at the hob. ‘Heat source. Cooking.’

  ‘And what do you think you’re cooking?’

  ‘Moussaka.’

  A serious case of trying to run before you can walk. And when it comes to cooking, in Lucy’s case she’s barely at the crawling stage. This is a full-blown disaster in the making, worse than anything I’d expected. Self-pity and anger, swathes of alcohol, hours of ranting. They’ve all been a given. But I’ve never foreseen this new-found obsession with transforming herself into a domestic goddess. She refills her glass, taps her phone and grabs the aubergine.

  Gloria Gaynor begins to blare out. ‘I Will Survive’.

  ‘Do you really think this is wise?’ I shout over the din.

  ‘I’m working to a recipe,’ she shouts back, waving at an ancient, tatty book that’s half hidden underneath the chaos. ‘What could go wrong?’

  Everything. That’s what I’d like to say. But I’m already in fear of my life. In a strange sort of trance, my flatmate begins to slice into the aubergine. And then she begins to sing along with Gloria … in a loud, defiant, totally out of tune voice.

  ‘When your life falls to pieces, Maya, you’ve got to find a hobby. And my hobby is cooking.’

  ‘Shit.’

  I watch as the aubergine’s hacked and stabbed and sliced. When she’s finished, she pushes back her chair, carries the chopping board over to the hob and sets about flinging the bits into the frying pan, adding industrial quantities of oil along the way. I move over to the window, pull back the net curtain
and gaze at the row of terraced houses across the street. I’ve no idea which one’s being rented. I’ve noticed no movement over the last three days, and despite Clive’s reassurances, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s installed there yet.

  At last, the song comes to an end and thankfully Lucy’s too preoccupied with frying the hell out of vegetables to select another.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she demands.

  ‘Nothing.’ I drop the curtains and sit down at the rickety table. ‘Couldn’t you find a different hobby?’

  Flipping the aubergine slices with a spatula, she shakes her head.

  ‘What about knitting?’ I ask.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s less dangerous for a start.’

  ‘Bollocks to knitting.’ She retrieves her glass and swigs back more wine.

  ‘So,’ I venture. ‘This is moving on, is it?’

  ‘No.’ She turns up the heat on the pan of brown goo. ‘I think this is me distracting myself from the fact that any human being with a penis is a penis.’

  And that confirms it. She’s finally moved out of shock. Bypassing denial, she’s gone straight for anger, and this is going to be a painfully long night unless I can find some sort of diversion. Perhaps I should make a start on the ‘look at me, I’m moving on’ stage of the exercise. After all, it’s what any heart-broken twenty-something would do: gather their wits, slap on the make-up and get on with it.

  ‘Maybe we should go out,’ I suggest, silently terrified of what’s happening in the saucepan now. The brown goo’s begun to bubble, violently.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Dinner? And then perhaps we might enjoy ourselves.’

  She grimaces in disgust.

  ‘If you think I’m going to flirt, you can forget it.’

  ‘Enjoying ourselves doesn’t necessarily mean men.’

  ‘Because I’m not picking up another of those bastards,’ she goes on, ignoring my words of wisdom. She waves the spatula, sending dollops of oil across the linoleum.

  ‘That’s not the intention.’

  Deciding I’d better clean up the mess before someone goes arse over watercress, I collect a dishcloth, drop to my knees and begin to scrub. As soon as I make a start, I realise that getting this close to the kitchen floor is a huge mistake. It should carry a public health warning.

  ‘We could just go out and dance.’ And drain some of that pent-up frustration out of you, while we’re at it.

  I’m pretty sure she’s about to tell me to get stuffed when the doorbell rings. She gives a start and stares towards the hall.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she demands.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t see through walls.’

  ‘Probably another bunch of roses from McPsycopath.’

  ‘And they can go straight in the skip.’

  Leaving Lucy with her pots of dubious matter, I go out into the hallway, preparing myself to tell some feckless flower deliveryman to take the roses and stick them where the sun doesn’t shine.

  I tug open the front door, open my mouth, and clamp it shut again, silenced by the sight of Skinny Lily Babbage posing on my doorstep in a ridiculously tiny grey dress, topped with a white jacket. For a few seconds, my heart trips with excitement. I’d love nothing more than to throw my arms around the woman and hug the life out of her, probably breaking a few bones in the process. And then I’d love to grill her for news on Dan. But I can’t, I remind myself, because Lily Babbage is on the wrong side of the smokescreen … and I need to get into character.

  ‘What do you want?’ I snarl.

  She rearranges the designer handbag on her arm.

  ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘There’s plenty to talk about.’

  From the way she’s looking at me, her thin lips set into a line, it’s perfectly clear she’s not about to cave. Maybe it would be easier to beg.

  ‘Please, Lily. Just leave it.’

  I begin to close the door, but she’s surprisingly quick for a stick insect. In an instant, the handbag’s wedged in the doorway, and so is a distinctly expensive shoe.

  ‘I’ve waited as long as I can.’ I’ve never seen her hazel eyes so hard, so determined. ‘And before you start, Dan’s definitely not sent me this time. And I need to have my say.’

  I pull back the door and roll my eyes.

  ‘Go ahead, but be quick. I’m busy.’

  ‘You two are made for each other.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She waves a manicured finger at me. ‘You’re the fucking love of his life, and he’s making a huge mistake.’

  As nonchalance is the name of the day, I take a moment to battle back the surprise. It’s not easy. Never in a million years did I ever expect to hear the F word coming out of that refined little mouth.

  ‘And I’m not prepared to stand by and let this happen,’ she continues. ‘I’ve only waited this long because I thought he’d change his mind, but the stupid sod’s still digging his feet in. Now, let’s talk.’

  We exchange glares, real from her side, fake from mine. I can’t risk Lucy getting involved in this. In her current state, I’ll never hear the end of it. No, I need to keep Lily out of the flat.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I growl. ‘I’ll get my jacket. Let’s go for a walk.’

  Skinny Lily narrows her eyes, thinks for a moment, and then nods. As soon as she removes the stiletto and the handbag, I slam the door on her.

  Making a detour to the kitchen, I find Lucy pouring more oil into the frying pan.

  ‘Jesus, these things soak up the fat,’ she virtually spits. ‘What a load of sodding effort for a stupid, sodding moussaka.’

  ‘How long until dinner?’

  ‘Dunno.’ She tips even more oil into the pan. ‘An hour? Two, maybe? Three?’ Giving up on the oil, she downs another mouthful of wine.

  ‘I’m just nipping out for a while.’

  She squints at me.

  ‘Where to? Who’s at the door?’

  ‘Nobody. A salesman. He’s gone. I’m going to get more wine. If we’re staying in, we’re going to need it. I thought I’d go up the High Street and get something nice … to go with the moussaka.’

  I wave at the hob and Lucy stares at me as if I’ve completely lost it. We both know the moussaka’s going to be an unmitigated disaster, and no amount of fine wine’s going to make it remotely edible.

  ‘Fair enough.’ She picks up a spoon and stirs the goo.

  Leaving Lucy to it, I grab a jacket and my handbag, and slip out of the front door. I motion for Lily to follow and walk to the end of the road, listening to the sound of her designer heels clacking against the pavement.

  ‘Coffee?’ I suggest.

  ‘Why not?’

  Before long, we come across the first café on the High Street, a small, ramshackle affair that seems to have been thrown together with no planning whatsoever. Pushing open the door, I’m greeted by a wave of warmth, the aroma of coffee and the dark eyes of a surly barista. I gaze around at a gathering of mismatched tables and chairs, walls adorned with flyers and tatty posters and a huge, ornate, gold-framed mirror near the window. Noting we’re alone, I order cappuccinos while Lily settles herself in the window seat. After a good deal of faffing, the surly barista presents me with two cups of coffee, each one decorated with chocolate sprinkle heart. I hand over the money, take the cups to the table and sit opposite Lily. With the huge mirror directly behind her, I’m going to be only too aware of every last bit of my bad acting.

  The door swings open again, letting in a draught of cold air along with another customer. Anxious now, I watch as he orders a coffee and sits close by, checking his mobile. He’s in his forties, greasy-haired, dull-eyed and sporting a podgy stomach. A prime candidate for team Boyd.

  ‘So,’ Lily begins, a little too loud for my liking. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re having a coffee.’

  �
�Don’t be facetious, Maya. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Of course I do.’ I pick up a teaspoon and slice it through the heart, destroying it completely.

  ‘I know he ended it this time.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So, what did he say?’

  ‘He told me to mind my own business.’

  Typical Dan, explaining nothing.

  ‘Well then, you should do what he says.’

  Her perfectly made-up face mutates into a scowl.

  ‘He was in love with you, head over heels. I’ve never seen him like that before.’

  ‘Things can change.’

  ‘Things can change?’ she repeats incredulously. ‘Maya, he went from wanting to marry you to nothing. Zilch. Nada. What happened?’

  Trying to dupe Lucy is one thing. A self-obsessed flat mate, lost in an alcohol-fuelled ride through break-up land, is an easy thing to deal with. But Lily Babbage is something else. Totally fixated on her task, as sharp as a razor and most probably an expert in reading micro-expressions to boot, she’s locked into a thoroughly sober mission – to reunite Daniel Foster with Maya Scotton.

  ‘I did something I shouldn’t have done,’ I state, careful to keep my tone flat, willing my face to stay absolutely still.

  Her eyes flicker.

  ‘You cheated on him?’

  Good God, she’s got a low opinion of me.

  ‘No,’ I glower.

  ‘Then what?’

  Wrestling my face under control, I continue. ‘It’s not my place to tell you. It’s between me and Dan.’ But that’s clearly not enough. Two perfect vertical lines have appeared between her brows. I’m going to have to give a little more. ‘I did something he can’t forgive, and that’s that.’ And then, for good measure, I add on the next bit with an apathetic shrug. ‘He’ll find someone else.’

  Just the idea of Dan ever finding someone else delivers a wave of disgust to my gut. He’s mine, all mine, and no other woman’s ever getting her hands on him … ever.

  ‘So, you’re giving up then?’

  She picks up her cup. Extending her little finger ever so slightly, she takes a tentative sip, winces and lowers the cup again, revealing a tiny coffee moustache.