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

by Lee, Mandy

  Tugging open a wardrobe door, I search through Dan’s selection of clothes: jeans, T-shirts, joggers, a couple of suits, more shirts. Finally, my fingers light on a dress … my dress. He must have hung it for me. Pulling it on, without any form of underwear whatsoever, I rush out to join the men.

  ‘Hey.’ Installed on a sofa, Gordon sips lazily at a cup of coffee. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answer, readjusting the dress. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I’ve sold your triptych.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sold.’ He examines his nails. ‘To a very influential collector based in this wonderful city. He loved it, wanted it and snapped it up. There were other offers, but they didn’t stand a chance. There’s also a lot of interest in any similar work you might produce. You’d better get busy.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  He turns to where Dan’s busy examining today’s breakfast. Evidently Gordon brought the trolley in with him. Lifting the lid on the platter, Dan picks up a slice of bacon and pops it into his mouth.

  ‘Good enough?’ Gordon asks.

  ‘Same as yesterday, minus the ring.’ Dan replaces the lid and sets about pouring drinks.

  ‘Ah, the ring. Do you like it, Maya?’

  Flopping onto a sofa and careful not to give Gordon a flash of my crotch, I raise my hand and display the diamond. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. We had people from Tiffany’s come over here. Simple, classy and silver. That’s all he knew. They showed him a selection and he panicked. I had to step in, give him the gay perspective, generally save the day.’

  ‘You did a good job.’

  A cup of tea appears under my nose. I take it.

  ‘We said tomorrow morning, Gordon.’ Holding a coffee, Dan sinks onto the sofa next to me. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Clive called this morning. Your Mr Boyd just raised his ugly, Scottish head.’

  In spite of the sunlight pouring in through the windows and the warm touch of the heating, an edge of cold seems to enter the room.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Dan asks, a frown settling on his forehead.

  ‘Nothing major. Don’t panic. Clive ran into him. Or should I say, he ran into Clive.’

  ‘Is Clive okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  Placing his cup on the coffee table, Gordon sits back and begins his story. ‘Mr Boyd follows Clive home from work, catches up with him outside the Financial Times building. He wants to know what’s going on.’ He pauses, narrowing his eyes before he continues in one of the worst Scottish accents I’ve ever heard. ‘Och, what’s Maya doing in New York and where’s that Mr Foster? I know they’re up to something. Och, I do.’

  ‘And Clive said?’ Dan asks, uneasily.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Gordon almost shouts, switching to one of the worst English accents I’ve ever heard. ‘But Boyd doesn’t like that.’ He reaches out and makes a fist. ‘He grabs hold of Clive and demands the truth.’

  I hear Dan sigh. Any minute now, he’s going to snap. Clearly oblivious to his friend’s irritation, Gordon presses on with his dramatic rendition.

  ‘Clive tells Boyd he doesn’t have a clue about Maya, but Dan’s in Bermuda. And then he says, what the fuck does it have to do with you? Apparently, Mr Boyd doesn’t take too well to this.’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘And then they have a little dust-up.’

  ‘A dust-up?’ Dan asks. ‘They had a fight?’

  ‘Yup. And needless to say, Clive came out on top. He was in the boxing club at Cambridge, Maya. Did you know that? A man who can crunch numbers and knuckles. You don’t mess with Clive Watson, trust me.’

  ‘But Boyd’s suspicious?’ I venture.

  ‘And that’s why I’m here. It’s time to bring this secret rendezvous to an end.’ He focusses on Dan. ‘I need to take Maya out on the town, and you need to get back to Bermuda.’

  Saying nothing, Dan slides a hand over mine. This is the last thing either of us wants.

  ‘He’s right,’ he says. ‘We need to throw Boyd off the scent.’

  ‘Completely off the scent,’ Gordon adds. ‘Maya’s my girlfriend now.’

  ‘But you’re gay,’ I blurt, regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

  Gordon stares at me, steely for a moment, before his face breaks into a grin.

  ‘I sure am.’ He flaps a hand. ‘But as far as the outside world’s concerned, I’m a mystery wrapped in an enigma.’ With a dismissive shrug, he gets to his feet. ‘My parents wouldn’t understand. They’re stuck in the dark ages.’

  ‘But you said …’

  ‘Show the real you?’ He waves a finger at me, and tuts. ‘Do as I say, not as I do. I may be a homosexual, but I’m also a mendacious, grasping, power-hungry homosexual.’ He straightens his suit. ‘My parents are never going to change, and I want my inheritance. What are you gonna do?’

  ‘But that’s wrong …’

  ‘Get used to it, Maya,’ Dan interrupts. ‘Gordon’s happy to stay in the closet. He likes his luxuries.’

  ‘You know me so well.’ Gordon smiles proudly. ‘Unlike the paparazzi.’ He takes his cup over to the trolley. ‘They just can’t work me out. They’re constantly sniffing for a story, so we’re going to give them one. My people are tipping them off as we speak. We’re going to leave this hotel arm in arm, all freshly fucked and loved-up.’

  I look to Dan for help.

  ‘You’d better go with it.’ He squeezes my hand.

  ‘I’m not kissing him.’ Oh God, another badly-thought-out blurt. ‘Sorry, Gordon.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he laughs. ‘And just so you know, I’d rather kiss a gibbon’s ass than kiss you.’ He claps his hands together. ‘Okay, Sunday in the Big Apple. What shall we do?’

  I shake my head. I have no idea what to do, no wish to go sightseeing, no enthusiasm for anything apart from spending time with Dan. Leaning forward, I place my cup on the table and slump back again. Ignoring my dejection, and obviously in his element, Gordon pushes on with the plans.

  ‘Dan, I’ve organised a private jet to take you back to Bermuda. You’d better get packing.’

  Rising to his feet, Dan nods glumly.

  ‘Why are you going back to Bermuda?’ I ask.

  ‘I need to fly home from there. And we can’t both show up back in London at the same time. I’ll have to stay with Bill for a few days.’

  ‘I’ll wait downstairs for you, Maya. You’ve got half an hour.’ Gordon hesitates, surveying my dress. ‘You wore that the other night. You might want to go and change.’ He purses his lips. ‘And a pair of panties wouldn’t go amiss.’ He winks at my crotch, and makes his way to the lobby. ‘And make-up too,’ he calls back. ‘If you’re stepping out with me, you need to look like the dog’s testicles.’

  ‘The dog’s bollocks,’ Dan corrects him.

  ‘I love you Brits,’ Gordon laughs. ‘You talk so weird.’

  I stay where I am, crossing my legs and listening to the swish of the lift door. Finally, we’re alone again. Only now it’s different. The spell’s broken. Reality’s nudged its way into our bubble. Holding out a hand, Dan beckons me to get up. I rise and step into his arms.

  ‘Every single sodding time,’ I grumble against his chest. ‘Why can’t he just leave us alone? I’m sick of this.’

  He pulls back and smooths my hair.

  ‘I’ll come home soon.’ He watches the slow progress of his hand before fixing his eyes on mine. ‘And then I’ll find a way for us to meet each other … if it kills me.’

  ‘Don’t say that. Be careful.’

  ‘Of course.’ He lifts my hand, admiring the diamond. ‘You’d better hide this.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth.’ His palms come to my cheeks. His eyes glimmer, completely earnest. ‘Remember the song I played for you when you got here?’

  ‘Snow Patrol.’

  ‘‘Shut Your
Eyes’.’ He pauses. ‘Do it.’

  I laugh.

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yes. Now.’

  With a smile, I comply. I have no idea what he’s planning. I’m about to open my eyes again when I feel a hand at the nape of my neck, soft and tender, another around my waist. He draws me in close and I feel his breath against the side of my face.

  ‘Trust.’ He brushes his lips against my earlobe. ‘However long this takes, don’t lose your faith. If I don’t get in touch, there’s a reason. I’ll tell you everything when I can. Every time things get too much for you, just shut your eyes and think of your sanctuary … of you and me.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  I lean back on the stool and examine the latest canvas. Still only a sketch, it’s a third and final self-portrait – outdoors this time, freed from the constraints of the room, I’m sitting on a bench in front of a wall, surrounded by a shower of sweet peas. With my head turned slightly to the right, my eyes are fixed on someone or something just outside the frame. Tomorrow, I’ll build up the base coat: grey-green and ochre for the wall, white for the dress. I look back at the other pictures, realising I’ve moved from hope in the first, through the darker shades of despair in the second, finally arriving at faith.

  I put down my pencil and rub my hands together. After spending the morning adding touches to the second canvas and the afternoon sketching out the third, my fingers are stiff with cold. The addition of an extra heater in the studio doesn’t seem to have made much difference, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever discomfort I have to endure, it’s nothing compared to Dan’s. And I can see an end to it all now. Soon enough, I’ll be back in Lambeth.

  I check the calendar, doing my best to ignore the demented reindeer kittens and the gaudy poinsettia. It’s Thursday, almost a full week since the exhibition, and now I’m back in the midst of a London winter New York seems a world away. I shut my eyes, not for the first time, and think of the snow, the skyline, Dan’s reflection in the window. Suddenly, I’m warm again.

  My mobile pings. A text from Lucy.

  Get your arse down here now.

  I check the time. Almost five. Time to go home. After cleaning up, I change into a clean pair of jeans and a jumper and make my way downstairs, through the gloomy back passage, into the basement of Slaters. Dodging past a clutch of boxes in the office, I come back up to the main floor where the Steves are sprawled out on a sofa, the evening glooming behind them.

  ‘Here she is,’ Little Steve announces. ‘The millionaire magnet.’

  ‘I’m not a millionaire magnet.’ I sink onto the sofa opposite.

  Big Steve’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

  ‘Okay, billionaire magnet,’ he says. ‘You can’t deny it. We’ve seen the photos.’

  Great. Lucy must have shown them the collection of paparazzi pictures floating around the internet, a strange memento of a day spent with Gordon. It’s all a blur in my head now: leaving the hotel arm in arm with New York’s most eligible bachelor, lunch in a swanky restaurant, a spot of shopping on Fifth Avenue, a freezing cold jaunt around Central Park in a horse-drawn carriage, dinner in yet another swanky restaurant, followed by a night’s sleep back in the penthouse. While Gordon stayed in the second bedroom, I returned to the bed I shared with Dan, wrapping myself in cotton sheets and comforting myself with his lingering scent.

  ‘And Lucy’s told us all about your disappearing act. She’s not best pleased.’

  As if I don’t already know. A bad-tempered reunion on Monday quickly escalated into a full-blown row. I must have apologised at least twenty times, getting nothing in return apart from a cold shoulder that lasted through a six-hour delay at JFK and the entire flight home. When we arrived back in Camden near to six o’clock on Tuesday evening, reduced to zombies, we went our separate ways to bed. By the time I got up on Wednesday morning, she’d already gone to work. By the time she came home, I’d already gone back to bed. At least today, my first day back at Slaters, she’s finally decided to speak to me again, albeit grudgingly. First contact came this morning. Riding the Tube together, I heard her grunt something about cooking risotto for dinner … but then again, that’s probably just her idea of revenge.

  ‘Tell me about it. I don’t know how many times I can say sorry.’

  ‘Give her time. She’ll cool down … eventually.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Oh, she will. She can’t be on the wrong side of the boss’s girlfriend.’

  I must seem confused now because he feels the need to explain.

  ‘We’ve signed on the dotted line. Gordon officially becomes the new owner of Slaters next week.’

  I can’t help myself. I’m thinking of Dan’s version of completing the paperwork.

  ‘Look at that,’ Little Steve laughs. ‘Dreamy smiles. She’s thinking about her man.’ He claps his hands together. ‘Now, we’re having a retirement party a week tomorrow. Covent Garden. You and Lucy are coming. No complaints. And the lovely Gordon too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve already asked him, and he’s already confirmed.’

  Now, that’s going to be interesting. A gay man, pretending to be straight at what’s going to be a thoroughly gay retirement do.

  ‘Won’t it be a little odd?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you hardly know him.’

  Little Steve brushes off my question with a flip of a hand.

  ‘Some of our punters are going to be there. He needs to meet them.’

  I suppress the urge to shake my head.

  ‘Now, tell me you’re coming,’ he pouts. ‘If you don’t come, I’ll cry for a week.’

  I doubt that, but I nod anyway.

  ‘Yes, I’ll come.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ He snakes an arm round the back of Big Steve’s head. ‘Right, sweetie, it’s time to lock up. I want to go home and binge watch Orange is the New Black.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ Big Steve agrees.

  A door bangs at the rear of the gallery. There’s a clattering of heels on wood. Lucy appears, clutching our coats.

  ‘I’ve had a shit day,’ she announces. ‘Where did you two disappear off to?’

  ‘Shopping.’ Little Steve examines his fingernails. ‘We found a camper van.’

  ‘Well, thanks a lot,’ Lucy growls. ‘Two fucking hours with Shih Tzu Man … on my own. Two hours of halitosis.’

  The Steves chortle in unison.

  ‘Yeah, very funny. He’s spent another six grand, by the way.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Little Steve chuckles.

  ‘Excellent? His dog ran riot and shat on the floor, and then … then, he only fucking asked me out.’

  ‘I hope you said yes,’ Little Steve counters, mustering all the seriousness he can. ‘He’s very well-heeled.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Lucy snarls. ‘If he’s that well-heeled, why doesn’t he have his breath sorted out? I’ve had enough.’ She points at me. ‘And don’t think you’re forgiven. We’re going out on the lash and I’m only taking you because there’s no one else.’

  Oh God, no. An evening of heavy drinking is the last thing I need. It’s bound to end in another argument, a handful of badly-judged, drunken admissions, and then, quite inevitably, the obligatory tears.

  ‘You’ve got work tomorrow,’ I remind her.

  ‘What do I care?’ She hurls my coat at me.

  ‘You’re cooking risotto.’

  ‘Fuck the risotto. Do you really want your teeth cemented together? Coat. Drink. Now.’

  Without any further ado, I stand and shrug on the coat. I’ve had just enough time to grab my handbag when I’m yanked sideways and dragged into the streets of Soho.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I moan, grabbing hold of the railings to anchor myself. ‘Let me sort myself out.’

  She pauses, lets go of my arm, moves back a little and proceeds to shuffle impatiently from one foot to the other while I button up my coat and look at the darkened sky. It makes me think of the darkness hanging over my life. Boyd coul
d be anywhere. Anxiously, I check over my shoulder, reminding myself of Dan’s promise. I’m being protected every single minute of every day. I just wish it were more obvious.

  ‘I don’t really fancy a drink,’ I say at last, watching as Lucy’s features crumple in disgust.

  ‘You’re no fun any more.’ She edges to one side, allowing a group of men to pass by. While I ignore them, she eyes them up, obviously deciding they’re not worth the bother. ‘You’re getting all sensible.’

  And maybe I am. A few months ago, I would have gladly joined Lucy on a binge, drinking my own body weight in wine, and flirting with anything possessing a heartbeat. But now, I’d love nothing more than to cuddle up in Dan’s arms, watch a film together, and maybe indulge in a little small talk. When he’s back in my life and I’m officially part of a couple, I’ll have a ready-made excuse to avoid the bars. And with Clive back in her life, maybe Lucy might calm down a little too. But for now, with no excuse, I need to come up with something, and quickly too.

  ‘How about a little shopping?’ I suggest, stunned by my own words. Jesus, I must be desperate to say that, especially at this time of year.

  ‘Shopping?’ Lucy’s mouth falls open. Evidently she’s as surprised as me.

  ‘Shopping,’ I hit back.

  ‘But it’s nearly Christmas. The shops are heaving.’

  ‘I know that. How about Liberty?’ I opt for the only shop I can really stomach. At least it’s quirky and different and old. I might be sufficiently distracted by its eccentricity to avoid a full-on meltdown. ‘I need to get a few bits for the family.’

  ‘Bits?’ Lucy snorts. ‘From Liberty? Exactly how much money have you got?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  She puckers her lips. If I’m going to get anywhere, I need to knock her out of her foul temper. Another apology might do it.

  ‘Look, Luce … I’m sorry about New York. I really am.’

  ‘You dumped me.’

  ‘And I’m ashamed of myself. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that. I shouldn’t have done it. I just got carried away.’

  ‘Bang out of order.’

  Oh, I’ve had enough. I’m in the mood to give it to her straight.