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

by Lee, Mandy

  Lucy presses her lips together.

  ‘Told her what?’ I ask.

  Saying nothing, Big Steve lowers himself onto the opposite sofa. Within seconds, there are more footsteps on the stairs. Little Steve joins us, collapsing into place next to his partner. Lucy picks up the wine bottle and shakes it. I have no idea why. It’s clearly empty.

  ‘Told her what?’ I repeat.

  ‘The sale’s fallen through,’ Little Steve grumbles.

  ‘I’m sorry, Steve.’ I’ve no idea which Steve I’m aiming my apology at, or why I’m apologising at all.

  ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’ Big Steve glowers at Lucy.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I was getting round to it.’

  ‘Getting round to what?’

  ‘Dan. He was the buyer. But he pulled out this morning.’

  ‘Let’s just say his name’s dirt around here.’ Little Steve grimaces. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I feel for the poor man.’ He swats a hand through the air. ‘But why throw away everything decent in your life?’

  ‘We were all sworn to secrecy,’ Lucy explains sheepishly. ‘He put in an offer soon after he met you. He wanted it to be a surprise.’

  ‘And now it’s all gone to rat shit.’ Little Steve purses his lips. For the time being, he says nothing else. Instead, he gazes into space as if he’s contemplating all the evils in the world.

  It gives me time to wonder what on Earth possessed Dan to put in an offer so soon. Was it to please me, to showcase my work? Or was I nothing more than a catalyst, inadvertently triggering some half-formed plan to move on with his life? Maybe it was a measure of his commitment to me, his faith in us. I have no idea what caused it, and no way of finding out … not yet. But whatever it was, I shouldn’t be surprised. Rushing headlong into things is just his way – a simple fact I’ve come to understand.

  ‘Oh well,’ Big Steve sighs, knocking me out of my thoughts. ‘We’ve got someone else interested now, but I’m not holding out much hope.’

  Someone else?

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘An American chap.’

  ‘That’s what you said last time.’

  ‘And this time it’s true,’ Lucy confirms. ‘It’s a real American chap. He’s got a couple of galleries in Manhattan.’

  ‘Well …’ I press on, trying to say all the things I ought to. ‘That bodes well. At least he knows his art from his arse.’

  Little Steve shakes his head. ‘Dan knew this art from his arse.’ He motions toward Brogue Man. ‘He was going to keep Slaters going as it is. Lucy in charge. But this new bloke. Jesus, who knows?’

  Another miserable silence ensues and I make the most of it, getting back to the job of trying to make sense of it all, quickly coming to the obvious conclusion: buying Slaters right now would be a step too far. Dan can’t be seen to have anything to do with me, but there’s no way he’s pulling out completely. This new buyer must be some sort of holding arrangement. Don’t believe what you see, I remind myself, and don’t believe what you hear. It’s all part of the charade.

  ‘Right then.’ Big Steve claps his hands. ‘Maya’s come to see upstairs. We’d better get on with it.’ He touches Little Steve on the arm. ‘You stay here, my love, and keep an eye on that one.’ He nods to the art lover.

  ‘You’ll have to go through my back passage,’ Little Steve laughs. ‘It’s terribly grim and grotty. Good luck.’

  Feeling a little unsteady on my feet after the wine, I follow Big Steve and Lucy down to the basement office and through a mysterious door at the back. Tentatively, we navigate a path past several musty cardboard boxes, and climb an ancient, rusting spiral staircase that takes us back up past the ground floor, to the space above.

  ‘So, this is it.’ Big Steve pushes open a second door. ‘Barry’s office.’

  He steps into the ‘office’, followed by Lucy. Bringing up the rear, I inspect my surroundings: a long room, complete with wooden floor, windows at each end and another door at the back. Originally whitewashed, years of neglect have left the walls slightly discoloured, the paint peeling off in places.

  ‘You’ve got a separate entrance here.’ Big Steve nods at the door. ‘Very dangerous steps down to the back. They’re a death trap. Barry used them, but he’s an old daredevil.’

  ‘Who’s Barry?’

  ‘A theatrical agent. This was the hub of his empire. He mostly dealt with has-beens, but he’s retired now. He put it up for sale and he who shall not be named saw the opportunity to expand.’ He pauses, raising an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, Barry’s willing to hang on for another buyer. Nobody wants a room like this on its own, but linked to the gallery, it’s a sure-fire sale.’

  ‘Is the American interested?’

  ‘Yes, but you can use the place for now. Barry’s fine about it. He’ll let us do anything. Oh look, he’s left a present.’ Scooting over to a wall, he lifts a calendar away from a screw. ‘Kittens. He’s left it on March. That’s bad luck. What is it now? July?’

  Big Steve flips the calendar to the correct month, and I wander round the room, noting the fact that my painting gear’s stored at the front, a couple of crates in one corner, canvases lined up against a wall. My triptych’s there, arranged in order and begging to be finished. Doing my best to ignore it, I turn away, assessing the potential. It’s roomy, that’s for sure. And the light’s good enough. All in all, it’s a bright, calm space. I could definitely work in here. Until everything’s sorted and I can go back to my studio in Lambeth, this will do just fine.

  ‘Lucy tells me you haven’t painted since the accident.’

  I shake my head. Lucy’s standing in front of the triptych now, unusually quiet. I move to her side, fixing my attention on the left-hand canvas. Pleasure. And then the right. Pain. In a flash, it all floods back, the night he stood me in front of these pictures, understanding me completely, telling me I deserved to be loved. I home in on the centre panel, all too aware of a stabbing sensation in my stomach. My throat’s constricting and tears are threatening to betray me. I knew this would happen. The moment I laid eyes on it, I was bound to fall to pieces. Struggling to keep control, I study his body: the muscular form, the taut chest, the mop of blond hair, his face turned towards pleasure.

  ‘You need to finish this,’ Lucy murmurs. ‘I know it’s painful, but …’

  ‘I agree.’ Big Steve adds. ‘Creativity’s a wonderful thing. Good for the broken heart.’

  A few moments pass in silence.

  ‘So,’ Lucy breathes. ‘You’ll work here?’

  ‘Yes.’ My eyes are still fixed on Dan. In spite of all my previous reservations about the triptych, I’m almost excited. It’s the right thing to do. I need to paint again because apart from Dan, it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive. And what’s more, while I’m finishing off the triptych, I’ll feel as if he’s with me.

  ‘Good. Starting on Monday, we’ll come into work together. I’ll know you’re painting … and I’ll know you’re safe.’

  With my agreement in place, we close up the room and wind our way back down the staircase, through the passageway, the office and back up to the main floor of the gallery. While the Steves slope off to the kitchen, Lucy slumps back onto the sofa and I join her.

  And then it happens. Slowly, very slowly, Brogue Man inches towards us. I watch him out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘Nice paintings,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, they are,’ Lucy agrees, barely paying attention. ‘I don’t suppose you’re buying though.’

  ‘I might do.’ He checks his watch.

  ‘Ronnie Scott’s,’ Lucy whispers out of the side of her mouth. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Well, I’d better go. Are you two off out tonight?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ Lucy demands.

  ‘Me. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘We weren’t planning on it,’ Lucy snarls.

  ‘Oh.’ He shuffles about a bit. ‘You should. There’s a new bar dow
n the road. Really nice. Mangans. Good music.’ He winks at me. ‘You’d like it.’

  Half an hour later and much against Lucy’s wishes, we’re sitting in Mangans, a distinctly upmarket wine bar. Reclining on a plush sofa and fighting for space with a bunch of cushions, we nurse two glasses of wine that have set us back nearly twenty pounds.

  ‘Rich people.’ Lucy scowls at the clientele. ‘Rich people everywhere.’

  She’s right. We really don’t fit in here. I scour the room, taking in the super skinny women and super smart men, and then I spot him, standing out like a sore thumb – the ‘art lover’ from Slaters. Propped up on his own collection of cushions, he’s busy reading a newspaper.

  ‘Why did we come here?’ Lucy demands. ‘This is shite.’

  ‘It’s posh.’

  ‘Posh shite.’

  And I’m not prepared to leave, not yet. For a start, there’s no way I’m about to abandon a glass of wine that cost the best part of a tenner. But more than that, I’m determined to find out exactly why the brogue-wearing jazz fan wanted us here.

  ‘I like it,’ I mutter.

  ‘Really? It’s bloody expensive, and there’s no totty, and oh God, it’s him.’ She nods toward Brogue Man. Finishing his wine, he folds his paper and gets up. ‘He’s coming over. Make him go away.’

  ‘Evening ladies,’ he smiles. ‘I told you it was nice.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip-off.’ I raise my glass.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘So,’ Lucy growls. ‘Are you the owner? Or are you just trying to get into our knickers?’

  ‘Neither. I just thought I’d pass on the recommendation.’

  ‘Well, thank you. You can go now. We’re lesbians.’

  Brogue Man holds up his hands.

  ‘I’m sure you are. Have a lovely evening.’

  Almost as soon as he leaves, music kicks into life and warmth floods right through me. I recognise it immediately. The soaring strings are unmistakable. It’s the very first song Dan played for me, on our very first date. I was right to follow my gut. The strange visitor to Slaters has lured us here so Dan can give me a message.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Lucy demands, searching the air as if she can actually spot the chords.

  ‘Ray Charles. ‘You Don’t Know Me’.’ With a shaking hand, I put down my glass.

  ‘It’s miserable.’ She turns to the bar and shouts. ‘Can’t we have something a bit more upbeat?’

  ‘Shush,’ I reprimand her. ‘You’re being rude again. Drink your wine.’

  ‘Two pounds a gulp,’ she complains, sliding into a bad-tempered silence.

  Grateful for an end to the moaning, I listen to the song’s progress, content in the knowledge that he’s reminding me, in the only way he can, that nothing’s changed. He’s still there and he still loves me. The rush of warmth subsides, quickly replaced by an onslaught of emotion. I’ve been teetering on the edge all day, and before I know it, I’m sobbing.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lucy demands.

  ‘Nothing.’ I wave a hand at her. ‘Just leave it. Please.’

  While she plunges even further into a foul mood, I sob some more. And the next song doesn’t help matters much. By the time Eva Cassidy’s finished singing ‘True Colors’, I’ve dug out my handbag’s entire supply of tissues, abusing them all to within an inch of their lives. I’m about to pay a visit to the toilet in search of a fresh supply when another song begins. It’s something I don’t recognise.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask, convinced that Dan’s selection is already over.

  ‘Mumford and Sons,’ Lucy replies, bursting unexpectedly into her own fit of tears. ‘‘I’ll Wait for You’.’

  Contentment creeps back onto my face and I give it free rein. I smile into space, at my uber-expensive glass of wine, and even at Lucy – although she doesn’t notice. Finally, I smile at the man sitting at the next table. And then I focus on his face, registering the broken veins on his nose, the sallow skin and sunken eyes. There’s something distinctly unsettling about him. He’s paying me far too much attention, watching my every reaction with indifferent, scientific interest. At last, with a nod of satisfaction, he downs the last of his beer, stands up and leaves.

  Chapter Three

  It’s dark, pitch black. But I know the feel of his body, the soft warmth of his skin, the hard muscles beneath. He’s above me again, pinning me down while his cock moves inside, slow and unhurried, rubbing at the underside of my clitoris, the walls of my vagina, causing everything to flutter, quiver, and quake.

  ‘Dan?’

  He says nothing. Instead, he seals his lips around mine, delivering a perfect, possessive kiss. In an instant, all too soon, I’m caught in the throes of an intense orgasm that jolts me back to consciousness. Fighting for breath, my crotch still throbbing, I reach out and run a hand over an unused pillow, the cold half of the bed sheets, expecting to find him next to me. But all too quickly, memory puts me firmly in my place.

  He’s not here.

  Wide awake now, I spend a few minutes gazing at the ceiling, conscious of the ache that’s plagued me since I last saw him. In the short time we’ve known each other, he’s become my drug of choice. The nightly dreams bring me a tiny dose, but they’re never enough. And now he’s been torn away from me, I’m suffering the consequences: a constant need consuming every waking thought; a craving that’s never going to end.

  An addiction.

  Never a good thing. Body and brain conspiring to self-destruct in a desperate hunt for pleasure. I lean over, retrieving the necklace from its new hiding place in my bedside drawer. Is that what I’ve got with Dan, I wonder? Does the pleasure blind me to everything else? I watch as the silver chain slips through my fingers, shocked at the turn in my thoughts. There’s no way I’m ever going to give up on him. I know that for sure. But while I’m stranded in the eye of the storm, before we’re reunited and logic and reason are engulfed in his presence again, I’m determined to get some perspective.

  I place the necklace back in the drawer and gently close it. Then I reach for my mobile, switching off the alarm before it kicks in. It’s almost five o’clock. Sunlight’s already playing against the curtains. Time to get up and get on with it, because today I’m on a mission. Today I’m going to Limmingham.

  The journey to Liverpool Street is bad enough, nerves jittering with every bump in the road, but it’s not until I’m finally disgorged from the taxi that the heebie-jeebies really set in. My heart rate triples, palms grow sweaty and my legs turn to blancmange, threatening to give way at any moment. Willing myself to get a grip, I hand over a twenty and make my way inside the station, focussing on the job in hand.

  I find a cash machine, insert my card and tap in the PIN. As soon as the balance flashes in front of my eyes, I catch my breath. Thirty thousand pounds. I squint, lean forward, and check the balance again. Yes, there’s no doubt about it. Thirty thousand pounds. A ridiculous amount of money. It makes me wonder just how long Dan thinks this is going to drag on. Resolving to spend as little as possible, I take out a hundred and queue up to buy a ticket to the east coast.

  As soon as I reach the front of the queue, I become conscious of someone standing behind me, uncomfortably close, possibly making a mental note of my destination. I check on my shadow, discovering a middle-aged man who’s dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket. Clearly fit, he’s an ideal candidate for Team Dan, and he gives me a small smile. Feeling reassured, I grab the ticket and weave a path through the crowds.

  Under the bright lights of the station, I buy a takeaway coffee, head to the platform and step onto the train. Settling myself into a fairly busy carriage, I place the coffee on the table and rummage through my handbag, stopping to fiddle with the mace and the personal alarm, hoping I’ll never need to use them. When I’m done, I dig out a magazine I’ve borrowed from Lucy.

  It’s not long before the train pulls out. As the clutter of central London thins out into the sprawl of t
he suburbs, I scan my fellow passengers, registering a family at the far end, a pair of elderly ladies gossiping, an unkempt youth; a rough type, barely washed. The door behind me slides open, and I’m joined by my shadow from the ticket queue. He takes a seat a few rows away and stares out of the window. Turning my coffee cup on the table, I do the same. Eventually, I go back to the magazine, distracting myself with a good dose of celebrity gossip. I’m doing my best to focus on an article about some reality TV star when we pull into Limmingham.

  Determined to fight the paranoia, I shove the magazine back into my bag and without looking back, make my way out of the tiny station. Avoiding the sea front road and the inevitable throngs of tourists, I navigate the back streets of town, past Victorian terraces and huge, opulent family homes. They soon give way to the modest, modern housing estate where my parents live. A quick visit to Mum and Dad is in order before I get down to the main business of the day.

  I find the back door open, as usual, and the kitchen empty. They’re in the living room, Dad asleep in an armchair and Mum stuck deep into a book. As soon as she spots me, she gives a jerk, dropping the book to the floor.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she cries out, clapping a hand to her chest. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’

  Dad’s roused. An eye slides open.

  ‘Maya, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Just visiting.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Mum gasps. ‘I wish you’d give us some warning.’

  ‘Why don’t you lock your back door?’ I ask. ‘Then you won’t have people turning up out of the blue in your living room.’

  Rolling her eyes, she pats the space next to her.

  ‘Roger,’ she snaps. ‘More tea. Now! And fetch the biscuits.’

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ I apologise, sinking onto the sofa next to Mum.

  ‘You never can these days. What’s brought you up here?’ She checks over my shoulder. ‘And where’s Daniel?’

  Without any further ado, I launch into my fabricated tale of woe, eager to get it over and done with. By the time Dad returns with the tea tray, I’ve come to an end and judging by the expression on his face, he’s clearly been listening in from the kitchen. He places the tray on the coffee table, points back to the door, mumbles the word ‘biscuits’ and disappears again.