Free Close My Eyes by Sophie McKenzie

. .’ She sounds a little injured now. ‘I’m in a hurry too. If I miss my train from Paddington . . .’
    ‘I know.’ I offer her a sympathetic grimace. Charlotte has mentioned her
long
journey from the West Country to my creative-writing class several times before. She definitely
gives off ‘the smell of burning martyr’, as Hen would say. Other members of the group are now appearing behind her. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the lift furthest away from me
has reached the second floor.
    ‘Like I say, I was just curious . . .’ Charlotte pauses. She shifts her bag up onto her shoulder and I notice it’s an Orla Kiely, identical to the one Hen bought me for my last
birthday.
    Across the lobby, the furthest lift away from me is opening. Students surge inside. There won’t be enough room for all of them, let alone me as well.
    ‘Okay, well, I really have to go.’
    Charlotte stares at me intently but says nothing. Her green eyes are impossible to read. For a second she seems almost angry. The lift doors close, leaving several people still outside. I glance
at the two remaining lifts. The one nearest me is moving now.
Third floor
. . .
fourth floor
. . .
    ‘I’m just so fascinated by your work, Geniver,’ Charlotte says. There’s a fawning tone to her voice that sets my teeth on edge. I take a step towards the lift as it pings
its arrival.
    ‘Bye, then,’ I say brightly.
    Charlotte’s face falls. She tosses her head and her blonde ponytail swishes from side to side. I feel guilty, then irritated. People are crowding around, angling for a spot in the lift as
it opens. If I don’t move now I’ll miss this one too. I step inside.
    As people pile in after me, I can hear Charlotte, still outside the lift, sniff loudly.
    ‘Well, good luck with your
next
book,’ she says evenly.
    My face burns as two women I don’t know stare at me.
    I press the button for the ground floor. As the door closes, I wonder if Charlotte knows what she’s saying. If she knows I haven’t written anything for nearly eight years.
    Since Beth.
    I try to push this thought away and head off to meet Hen for lunch. As I reach the restaurant I pass a little girl. She’s smiling and skipping along beside her mother in a stripy school
uniform, with short dark hair in two stiff bunches. I stop and turn, staring after her. A fear rises inside me. In the same way that you notice lovers in the street after you yourself have suffered
a break-up, for years I’d see babies in prams and toddlers in buggies and think: ‘That’s what my Beth would look like now.’
    But I never wondered before if any of the children I notice could
be
my Beth.
    The fear increases inside me. I actually take a step after the little girl before trampling on my panicky thoughts.
Don’t be stupid. Beth is gone.
Except . . . my panic rears up
again.
Maybe she isn’t gone. She could be out there somewhere and you would never know, Gen.
    Oh God
. I force myself to go into the restaurant. I sit down, feeling hot even though it’s cool and calm and the room is only a quarter full. I push thoughts of the little girl
with her bunches out of my mind and start puzzling over that £50,000 Art paid to ‘MDO’. Who or what is MDO?
    The restaurant is starting to fill up when Hen arrives, nearly fifteen minutes late. She flies in through the door of the restaurant, her wild hair streaming behind her, her scarf trailing on
the floor. She beams at the maître’d, who smiles indulgently at her and escorts her to our table.
    That’s Hen all over. Pretty and dizzy. On the surface. Underneath, she’s as sharp as a pick.
    ‘Sorry, Gen,’ Hen gasps. ‘I got held up in Cath Kidston.’
    I can’t help but smile. If there’s one sentence that sums Hen up, that’s it. Always late, and with a penchant for girly knickknacks. Until she married Rob last year, Hen never
had any money yet never seemed to stop spending. I’ve lost track of the number of times we’ve been