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

by Lee, Mandy

  I close my eyes and think of Dan. It’s only been a few hours since I last saw him and I’m already desperate to hear his voice again. Before I know it, the tears are back with a vengeance. I wipe them away and shake my head. This will never do. I need to get on with the show.

  So, what would a truly heart-broken Maya Scotton do? Drink wine, that’s for sure. Fail to eat anything healthy, another certainty. Wallow in self-pity for a few days, take an inordinate number of baths … and finally go out on the pull. Well, I can easily manage the wine, wallowing and baths, but I’ve no intention of ever pretending to pull another man. That’s a step too far. I’d love nothing more than to bury myself in painting, but seeing as everything’s at Dan’s apartment, that’s currently impossible. I’m sure it’ll be shipped over sooner or later, but in the meantime I need to keep myself busy.

  In the absence of anything else to do, I opt for cleaning the kitchen, discovering along the way that Lucy wasn’t wrong. There are things growing in the sink. In fact, it’s a full-blown bio-hazard. I pull plates out of the bowl and scrape them into the bin, wash up every single dirty pot, mug and glass I can find, and wipe over the tops. When I’m satisfied with my efforts, I check the fridge, only to discover it’s practically empty. Apart from a lump of mouldy cheese and a half-empty tub of spread, there’s nothing. Not even milk. A trip to the local shop is in order.

  I grab my purse and keys, open the front door and freeze. My old friends fear and anxiety are standing in the doorway, blocking my exit to the world. I remain motionless, telling myself I’ve spent far too much time under their spell. They’re here now because of Boyd, but I’m not about to let them defeat me. With a deep breath, I shove them to one side and step out into the street.

  Two hours later, I’m still chuffed to bits I made it to the shop and back in one piece. Okay, so I might have panicked a couple of times and I might have forgotten everything I went for, returning with four bottles of wine, three bars of chocolate and a slab of cheese. Fear and anxiety came along for the ride, but by the time I got back to the flat they were dragging their heels in my wake.

  I’m pottering about in the kitchen again when the doorbell rings. I hear Lucy in the hallway, the front door opening, and I grit my teeth, wishing I could be anywhere else but here.

  ‘Maya.’

  Clive’s voice greets me from the doorway, and he’s not alone. Watching me carefully, as if I’m on the FBI’s most wanted list, Lucy’s standing by his side.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  I glance at Lucy. What would she expect right now? A good helping of hard-edged bitterness, I expect.

  ‘Of course,’ I scowl, coming up with the goods. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I point at the bottles of wine, ready and waiting on the table. ‘I’ll be drowning myself in that little lot before long. Don’t worry about me.’ And then, for effect, I add on a touch of break-up nastiness. ‘Just worry about your twat of a friend.’

  While Lucy baulks, Clive’s face remains impassive, soaking up my fake vitriol.

  ‘I’ll just go and …’ Lucy hesitates. ‘Sort out my make-up. Clive, are you coming?’

  ‘No,’ he answers, keeping his eyes fixed on me. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  Lucy beats a hasty retreat. When he’s satisfied she’s holed up in her bedroom, Clive pushes the door shut, marches over to the sink, turns on the tap and motions for me to join him. As soon as I’m by his side, he pulls me down until my face is practically in the bowl. Leaning on the draining board, he moves in close.

  ‘What are we doing?’ I ask.

  ‘The sound of water should mask our conversation,’ he informs me seriously. ‘If your place is bugged, they won’t be able to hear what we say.’

  ‘Did Foultons tell you to do this?’

  ‘No, I saw it in a film.’

  He’s going totally over the top and I really should tell him that, but we don’t have time.

  ‘Are you really okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Like I said, I’m fine.’

  ‘So what’s all that about?’ He motions back to the wine.

  ‘Play acting.’

  ‘Just make sure the truth doesn’t dribble out when you’re three sheets to the wind.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. How’s Dan?’

  ‘Same as this morning. Just worried about you.’ He touches my arm. ‘They’re taking good care of him. You need to focus on the show … and we need to crack on.’

  ‘Are you definitely going to finish with her tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘It needs to be done and it needs to be public.’ He watches a pigeon land on the sill outside. ‘Just remember what I said. Don’t let any other man get his mitts on her. She’s mine.’ He focusses on me, a little awkward. ‘Listen, a couple of practicalities,’ he goes on quickly. ‘You’ll be getting your wages from Fosters. It’s not much, but you’ll see another payment in your bank account. It’s been channelled through a few places, but it’s from Dan.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To keep you going.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘You’ll find out. If anyone asks, tell them Dan bought your last painting. Make out it’s guilt money. He’ll back up the story.’

  ‘I can’t take it.’

  ‘You can and you will. There’s a flat up for rent over the road. We’ll be renting it through a third party. You’ll be watched from there. Twenty-four seven. Whenever you go out, you’ll be followed and tracked, discreetly. You’ll never be alone. Not for one second.’

  I gaze at the running water.

  ‘This is real.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He fiddles with the tap, reducing the flow. ‘And this is making me want a piss.’

  We laugh quietly for a moment, and then he grows serious again.

  ‘One more thing.’ He’s obviously not entirely comfortable with what he’s about to say. ‘Dan wants you to contact Layla.’

  Oh Jesus, I could do without that.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re the only one who can do it.’ He checks on the pigeon. Missing its footing, it staggers and flies off down the street. ‘Sooner or later, she’s going to find out about the accident. He doesn’t want her showing up out of the blue.’

  ‘But she’s his sister.’

  ‘We all know that.’ He lowers his head, following the path of the pigeon’s flight. ‘I don’t know why he won’t see her.’

  ‘I don’t know either.’

  ‘Well, somebody’s got to contact her, and apparently you’re the best person for the job.’

  ‘Dan said that?’

  ‘Yes. He wants you to pass on the news, make sure she’s alright … let her know she’s not to get in touch.’ He fiddles again with the tap.

  ‘Great,’ I mutter.

  ‘He’s sorry … about the way he reacted to her. I know that much. But he’s not ready to meet her yet.’

  ‘What about Sophie?’ I ask.

  He cocks his head. ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s ill. That’s why Layla came down. She wanted him to know.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Breast cancer. They caught it early. Her odds are good, but …’

  Clive rubs his chin.

  ‘Does Dan know about this?’

  ‘I never got to tell him.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe when he’s a bit stronger. He’s having another operation, on his leg. After that, perhaps.’

  Not for the first time today, I picture the man I love laid up in his hospital bed. No matter what I’m going through, it’s far worse for him.

  ‘How am I going to find out how he’s doing?’

  ‘You can’t. No contact. We’re both changing our mobile numbers. This is the last time we can talk for a while. It’s going to be hard, but it’s only temporary. A few days, a few weeks. Who knows?’ He pauses.
‘He loves you. I’m to make that perfectly clear.’

  Leaving the tap to run, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tiny canister and hands it to me.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Mace spray. Just in case.’ He reaches into his pocket again and gives me what looks like a small black key fob. ‘And this is a personal alarm. You can’t hide away here. You need to be out and about. If you’re worried at any time, press the button.’ He touches it lightly. ‘You won’t be alone.’

  I examine the alarm. I can only hope it’s never needed.

  ‘We stuck to the story with the police,’ Clive goes on. ‘I don’t know if they bought it, but there you go. We’re searching for Boyd. Bill’s coming over from Bermuda. He knows a few people.’

  I think of Bill: on the surface, nothing more than a bright-eyed, harmless old man. But there’s a dark undertow, complete with shady connections … and the iron will to use them.

  ‘I don’t want anybody bumped off.’

  ‘Nobody’s being bumped off.’

  We’re interrupted by a banging door. Clive turns off the tap. A hint of panic flashes across his eyes.

  ‘Ready for your performance?’ he asks.

  ‘Bring it on.’

  We straighten up in unison.

  ‘What the fuck are you two doing?’ Lucy demands.

  ‘I was feeling a bit sick,’ I blurt quickly. ‘Clive was helping me.’

  ‘But …’

  Another ring at the doorbell causes all three of us to start. I’m grateful for the distraction. Lucy clearly doesn’t believe a word I’m saying, and to top it off, she’s just clocked the mace and the little black fob.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I announce.

  Dumping my new possessions on the worktop, I make my way out into the hall and pull open the front door. I’m faced with an overly-happy delivery man, clutching a huge bunch of red roses.

  ‘Maya Scotton?’ he chirps.

  ‘Yes.’ A sliver of ice runs through my veins.

  ‘These are for you. There’s no card.’

  Before I can tell him to sling his cheery hook, the roses are thrust into my hands. Without another word, Mr Happy gets back into his van, slams the door and starts the engine.

  ‘Well, these aren’t from Dan.’ Clive cranes his neck over my shoulder, eyeing up the van, making a mental note of the company name. ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘You won’t find anything. He’ll have covered his tracks.’

  We both know who I’m talking about. Convinced he’s won the latest battle, Boyd’s making it obvious he’s still around.

  ‘They’re going in that thing,’ I announce, stepping out onto the pavement. Thank goodness the neighbours are busy with home improvements. There’s a skip right outside our flat. In the most public way possible, I’m going to let Boyd know he certainly hasn’t won the war. Far from it. With a dramatic flourish, I make a show of dropping the roses into the rubble.

  Chapter Two

  I hear a cough and take another furtive peek at the man who’s currently examining a seascape. He’s been here for almost as long as I have, picking over one painting after another. It’s three days since I last saw Dan and I’m already descending into paranoia. My brain’s on the rampage, wondering whether he’s one of my protection team or some low-life Boyd’s employed. With his slicked-back hair, brown corduroy jacket, striped polo shirt, neatly ironed jeans, and brogues, I settle for the third, most realistic option. He’s nothing more than an innocent art lover, working his way through every single canvas in the place. Disregarding him, I look out over Frith Street, watching the bustle of Friday night in Soho, wishing I could return to a simple life, where everything was exactly as it seemed. But for now, at least, I’m lost in a world of pretence, conscious of every single movement, every last word, doubting everyone and everything. A car rolls past, slowly. Black and sleek with darkened windows, it pulls to a halt for a moment outside the gallery, and then moves on. My thoughts run riot again.

  I close my eyes, summoning up the dream that’s visited me for the past couple of nights. I’m back with Dan. I don’t see him, but I smell him, taste him, feel him keenly, as if I’m wide awake and he’s right there with me. My senses lap it up: the touch of his lips, his breath against mine, the delicious, tortuous waves of pleasure building inside as he thrusts. It’s a nightly elixir that keeps me going. I can only hope it comes again tonight, and every night until we’re reunited.

  I hear the bang of a door and open my eyes. Lucy emerges from the kitchen, carrying a wine bottle and a couple of glasses. She casts a disdainful glance in the direction of the mysterious visitor and joins me at the front of the gallery.

  ‘Right, I’m done.’ She places the glasses on the table. ‘It’s Saturday. Let’s get blasted.’

  I stare at her in silence, wondering why the fact it’s Saturday makes any difference. Ever since Wednesday night she’s been on a mission to forget. An hour after flouncing out of the door with Clive, she staggered back in alone, transformed from a loved-up lust-puppet into a weeping, self-pitying shambles. Four bottles of Pinot Grigio just didn’t stand a chance. Inevitably, three evenings have now disappeared under a mountain of used tissues, a thousand unanswerable questions, and even more wine.

  ‘Why don’t we go upstairs first? I’d like to see my new studio.’

  After all, that’s the main reason I’m here. My clothes have already been moved back to Camden. There wasn’t the space for the canvases and paints. It was Lucy’s idea to store them in a spare office above Slaters, the Steves’ suggestion I use it as a temporary studio until the sale goes through.

  ‘Later.’ Opening the wine bottle, she fills the glasses. ‘Drink.’

  Eyeing up the wine, I silently wonder how much more I can take. Dragged along in Lucy’s boozy wake, my brain’s fried and my liver’s threatening to implode.

  ‘Where are the Steves?’

  I pick up the glass. Reminding myself that a real post-break-up Maya Scotton would have slugged back the lot by now, I gulp down a mouthful and wince.

  ‘Downstairs. Faffing.’ Lucy slumps next to me. ‘I texted Clive.’

  ‘Not again, Luce.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it.’

  Honestly, I could give her a good shake. Nothing too violent. Just a quick ‘snap out of it’ shake, followed by a well-meant slap on the cheek. After all, by my calculations, this is the fourth time she’s texted Clive. I stare at my mess of a friend, deciding she’s like a pinball, mercilessly flung from one flipper to another, veering between anger, despair and desperation.

  ‘He’s only going to think you’re a head case. Leave it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Denial?’

  ‘You didn’t ask him to give it another go? Please tell me you didn’t.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Oh, Lucy. Did he reply?’

  Of course he didn’t. I already know that.

  ‘He hasn’t replied to any of them.’

  ‘You’re developing stalker tendencies.’

  ‘It’s not my fault I fell for him.’

  Biting back the urge to scream, I decide it’s time for another flick of the flippers. I can’t deal with misery and desperation, not right now.

  ‘Give up on being pathetic,’ I suggest. ‘Go back to anger. It’s much more fun.’

  ‘Is that where you are?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  Picking up her glass, she takes a gulp of wine and gazes out of the window, watching a loved-up couple as they amble past, hand in hand.

  ‘Bastards. I’m too depressed to be angry.’

  ‘Just give it a go. For me.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘He’s a shit.’

  Not good enough. Way too half-hearted for my liking.

  ‘You need to go that extra mile. How about he’s a womanising shit?’

  ‘Still sounds a bit lame.’ She gulps back more wine.
/>   ‘Okay, a lying, ruthless, heartless twat of a womanising shit?’

  Her lips curl upwards. It’s not much of a smile, but at least it’s a start.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  We chink glasses and finish off our drinks.

  ‘He’s a bastard,’ she exclaims, with a little more gusto. Leaning forward, she grabs the wine bottle and refills our glasses. ‘In fact, he’s a big bastard.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  I might just have got her on a roll.

  ‘He’s a big bastard shit,’ she affirms, cranking up the volume.

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘An even bigger shit than Dan … and that’s saying something.’

  I wince.

  ‘An accountant … called Clive. What the hell came over me?’ She’s got that mad dog look in her eyes now. ‘He’s the king of shits,’ she half-shouts. ‘The shitmeister!’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a punter over there.’

  ‘And? He’s a man. Therefore he’s a wanker. They’re all a bunch of wankers.’

  Oh Lord, I’ve set off something here, opened up a Pandora’s Box of sweariness, and I’m not entirely sure I can keep it under control.

  ‘Too loud,’ I warn her. ‘And too much swearing.’

  ‘I can do much better than that.’

  Oh, I know she can … and that’s what I’m scared of.

  ‘They’re a bunch of cun …’

  ‘Enough,’ I snap loudly before she can finish.

  ‘You wanted me to get angry.’

  ‘Yes, but not with him. He might be about to buy a painting.’

  ‘He’s not buying anything.’ She motions her glass towards the visitor. ‘Look at his shoes.’

  I check on the shoes and shrug. I have no idea how Lucy’s learned to rate potential buyers based on their footwear.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘Brogues,’ she sneers, slamming her glass on the table. ‘He’s biding his time before he goes to Ronnie Scott’s. Jazz hands.’

  Splaying her fingers and waving her hands about, she laughs insanely.

  ‘Have you told her yet?’ Big Steve demands, appearing at the top of the stairs.