Close My Eyes Read Online Free PDF Page B

. . . that’s my husband . . .
he’s recently out of work and well, anyway . . . it just seemed like the right thing to do.’ She stops and looks away.
    My heart sinks. So Bernard has lost his job.
Of course
. That’s what this is about: money.
    ‘Was it a good job?’ I ask, lightly.
    ‘Yes, well, it was a regular salary. Bernard worked for a construction company, but he’s getting older and they’re always looking for ways of getting rid of the union guys
before they get too close to their pensions.’ She shakes her head, lost for the moment in her own problems. ‘When Bernard came home and told me, it was too much on top of knowing how
sick poor Mary was getting, but then, after she died and I told him what she told me about your baby he said that it wasn’t a coincidence, that the Lord had taken Mary so that she would tell
us about your baby. And he went on the internet and found out all your details – about how you’d called the baby Beth and you being a writer and your husband appearing on that TV
show.’
    Lucy picks up her cup of coffee. It suddenly all clicks into place. She’s only here because of Art’s involvement in
The Trials
. The series – a reality TV show
that’s a cross between
Dragon’s Den
and
The Apprentice
– was shown over four weeks earlier in the year; Art was one of the three panellists. It’s not like
the show has made him a household name. And – apart from once or twice during the weeks when the show was broadcast – he hasn’t been recognized in the street either. But in
business circles, Art’s reputation has definitely been enhanced. And he’s developed a small but devoted fan-base of female admirers too. Any internet search on Art would quickly reveal
he is successful and wealthy – just as any attempt to find out about me online would identify me firstly as his wife and mother of his stillborn baby girl and, secondly, as a writer, albeit
one who hasn’t published a book in eight years.
    Lucy puts down her cup. It rattles in the saucer. ‘So it was easy to find you, Mrs Loxley. And . . . oh, goodness, Bernard and I knew this would be a shock for you but we hoped that in
coming here . . .’
    ‘We?’ I look around. The only man in the café is the young waiter. ‘Is Bernard here too?’
    ‘He’s outside in our hire car, waiting for me.’ Lucy looks embarrassed. She pushes across the table a scrap of paper on which a mobile phone number is neatly printed. ‘We
didn’t want to overwhelm you. Here’s my number for when you’ve had a chance to think about what I’ve said.’
    The reality of the situation settles inside me as I pick up the piece of paper and shove it into my coat pocket. A couple with vague connections to the hospital in which I lost my baby have seen
an opportunity to make money out of my grief by selling me false information. The cruelty of it almost blinds me and, now that the terrible hope is dashed, I realize just how huge a part of me
craved that Beth was, truly, alive.
    This hope, of course, is the very emotion that Lucy and Bernard have been counting on. In seconds, my hurt turns to humiliation and my humiliation to rage.
    ‘So how much do you want?’ I snap.
    Lucy looks shocked. ‘That isn’t what we . . . it’s not like that . . .’
    Christ
, they’re not even good extortionists.
    ‘So do you have anything else to sell apart from your sister’s deathbed confession?’
    Lucy frowns. ‘I don’t understand.’
    I lean forward, spitting out the words. ‘Do you have anything else to tell me?’ I say, not expecting an answer.
    She frowns, then bites her lip. Hesitating.
    So she has held something back, some other bargaining chip. I steel myself. ‘You want the money first? Is that it?’ I’m seething now, my fists clenched, barely able to contain
the fury that roils inside me.
    ‘No, Mrs Loxley, it’s just this last thing is hard to tell you . . .’ she tails off.
    ‘Harder than telling me my daughter’s