Close My Eyes Read Free

eyes glitter
in the soft light and my heart lurches with love for him. For all his ruthlessness in business, Art’s fundamentally the kindest man I know.
    ‘I’m sorry about the appointment,’ I say. ‘I know it’s not fair . . .’ I tail off, wishing my thoughts weren’t so confused.
    ‘You know you’re nuts, don’t you?’ Art says affectionately.
    We stare at each other for a moment, then Art leans forward. ‘Can you at least explain to me what you’re worried about, Gen? Because I only want . . . that is, everything I do,
it’s all for you, you
know
that. I just want to understand, because I can’t see how
not
trying again is the right thing.’
    I nod, trying to work out what to say. How I can explain what feels so muddled and fragile in my own head.
    ‘I can’t think in terms of “replacing” Beth,’ I say.
    It hurts to use her name. But not to say it denies her existence, which is worse. My stomach twists.
    ‘I didn’t mean
replace
.’ Art dismisses his previous word with a shrug. He sits upright. ‘
Obviously
we can’t replace her. But we
can
have
the experience of being parents, which her dying cheated us of.’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Art fingers his collar, feeling for the hidden nick in the cotton. ‘Then let
me
know for both of us.’
    ‘What about the money?’ I frown. ‘We’ve already spent so much.’
    Art waves his hand. ‘That’s the least of our problems.’
    It’s true, though I still can’t quite get used to how much Art is earning. It’s not that we were struggling before: Loxley Benson has been doing well for a long time, but
it’s really taken off this year. In fact, right now, it’s one of the fastest-growing small businesses in the UK.
    ‘I don’t mean the amount,’ I say. ‘It’s the whole thing of sending good money after bad and—’
    ‘Jesus, Gen, it’s not
that
much money. Just a few grand. And me doing
The Trials
is getting us more work every day. A woman at a client meeting the other day,
she’s involved in some government initiative and she wants to talk to me at the Brussels meeting tomorrow about bringing me in. We’re doing really well, Gen, like I told you we would.
We’re about to go
massive
.’
    ‘But . . .’ I stop, unable to say what I truly feel, which is that Art’s business success makes me feel inadequate. It’s not fair, when he works so hard for us, but being
pregnant made me his equal. Like I was making a proper contribution to our marriage at last. And now, the reminder that he makes money hand over fist highlights how I have failed to keep my end of
the unspoken deal between us.
    ‘You
have
to want this, Gen. We can do it. I will find a way.’
    The words, the set of his mouth, his whole body . . . it’s all utterly convincing. And, I know from experience, virtually impossible to resist.
    ‘You really want to try, don’t you?’
    Art shrugs. ‘What’s the alternative? Adoption?’
    I shake my head. That’s one thing we’ve both always agreed on at least. If we’re going to have a baby, it should be
our
baby.
    ‘Exactly.’ Art leans forward. ‘I do want this, Gen.’ He pauses and his mouth trembles. ‘But not unless you want it too.’
    For a fraction of a second he looks vulnerable, like a little boy, and I see how afraid he is that I will never move on from Beth dying and that our love will slip away from us because of it . .
. because one day I will have to choose between letting go of Beth and letting go of Art.
    ‘I want to do this
with
you, Gen,’ he whispers. ‘Please try and see that.’
    The taxi slows to a halt at the traffic lights separating Camden High Street from Kentish Town Road. Art and I met in Camden, fourteen years ago at a big New Year’s Eve party I’d
gone to with my best friend, Hen. Art was twenty-six and in his first year of running his own business. He’d blagged his way into the party with a bunch of his colleagues because he thought
there’d be useful people there.