Close My Eyes Read Free Page A

I was just up for free drinks and a laugh.
    We met at the bar, when one of Art’s colleagues – Tris – bumped into Hen and it turned out they were old uni friends who’d lost touch. Of course, Hen introduced me to
Tris who, in turn, introduced me to Art. Art bought a round of drinks, most of which I knocked over on my way back from the Ladies. He was sweet about that, immediately buying another round, even
though – I found out later – he could barely afford to eat at the time. We got chatting. He told me about Loxley Benson, how he’d set up the business with a good friend just
months before, how he wanted to ride the new wave of online trading, how passionately he felt about making sure the investments his company supported were ethical and socially and environmentally
responsible.
    I told him how I worked for a boring homes magazine, writing about kitchens and paint schemes, but how one day I wanted to write a novel. I remember being blown away by how driven he was. How he
was prepared to take any risk and suffer any setback to get where he wanted. How it wasn’t so much about making money as making a difference.
    Even then, I knew that whatever Art wanted, he was going to get.
    Including me.
    ‘Gen?’
    I bite my lip. It’s dark outside now, the street lamps starting to glow as the taxi drags its way past the dreary shops and crowded pavements of Kentish Town High Street. If he
wasn’t married to me, Art would probably have four kids by now. He should have this. I shouldn’t stop him from having this.
    ‘It’s the hope,’ I say. ‘I can handle anything except the hope.’
    Art laughs. I know he doesn’t really understand what I mean. But he loves me and that’s enough.
    ‘Why don’t you check out the ICSI stats,’ I say. ‘See what you think. Then we can decide.’
    Art nods enthusiastically and reaches into his pocket. A second later his phone buzzes and I realize he must have had it turned off for most of the last hour. I can’t remember the last
time he turned it off for more than a few minutes.
    He’s still talking on the phone as we reach Crouch End and walk into the house. Lilia, our Slovakian cleaner, is just leaving. As I shut the door behind her I notice the post piled up by
the hall radiator. I pick it up and wander into the kitchen. We don’t use the other downstairs rooms that much. It’s a big house for just two people.
    I flick idly through the mail. There’s a postcard from my mum, who’s on holiday with her latest boyfriend in Australia. I set that down on the kitchen table, then take the rest and
stand over the recycling pile, chucking the junk mail on top of it. I put aside two bills and an envelope bearing the logo of Art’s solicitors. More junk mail follows: magazines, takeaway
flyers . . . How can we receive so many pointless bits of post in just one day?
    Art is still talking on the phone. His voice – low and insistent – grows louder as he passes the kitchen door, then fades again. As I throw a couple of catalogues onto the recycling
pile, it teeters and finally collapses.
    ‘Shit.’ As I pick everything up, Art reappears.
    ‘Gen?’
    ‘How on earth is it possible for us to generate this much paper?’ I say.
    ‘They’ve brought forward tomorrow’s Brussels meeting, so Siena’s booked me onto an earlier flight.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘The meeting’s at ten. I’ll be leaving here just after six, so I was wondering about an early night . . .’ Art hesitates, his eyebrows raised. I know what he’s
thinking. I smile. At least it should mean the subject of IVF gets dropped for the rest of the evening.
    ‘Sure,’ I say.
    We have dinner and I watch some nonsense on TV while Art makes a couple of calls and checks various spreadsheets. My programme segues to the
News at Ten
. As the first ad break starts, I
feel Art’s hand on my shoulder.
    ‘Come to bed?’
    We go upstairs. Art drops his clothes on the red-and-orange-striped rug and shakes back the