Free Close My Eyes by Sophie McKenzie Page A

in shops and she’s had her cards cut up in front of her. She frittered away most
of her twenties in a succession of short-lived jobs which she only managed to hang on to for as long as she did because of her charm and her smarts. Unsuitable boyfriends were also a specialty
– penniless drifters with endearing smiles and severe commitment issues. No one who knew Hen was surprised when she fell pregnant with Nat or that the father ran away as soon as he found
out.
    Rob
was
a surprise. He’s ten years older than her, and a banker – a breed that the younger Hen would have had put up against a wall and shot. Rob is as grounded as Hen is
flighty and, while I believe Hen genuinely loves him, I’m sure she enjoys his money too.
    Still, as my mother never tires of reminding me, you can never really understand anyone else’s relationship. And the truth is that Hen’s been far easier to be around for the past
eighteen months, now she’s able to indulge her extravagant tastes without worrying about paying her bills.
    Hen is on top form. She doesn’t mention Lucy O’Donnell’s visit for at least half an hour. She’s full of the funny shop assistant at Cath Kidston and some quirky
expressions Nathan has come up with. I try to put O’Donnell out of my mind too, though her words lurk like a shadow behind everything I think and say.
    ‘Are you okay, Gen?’ Hen asks at last, smoothing down her top. It looks expensively cut, with a low neckline and tiny seed-pearl buttons. She casts a glance at my chewed fingernails
and the torn, red skin around them and I smile, knowing this is how Hen gauges my well-being.
    I tell her how upset Art got last night and then I tell her about the payment to MDO. I feel disloyal bringing it up, but it’s on my mind and I can’t hide my anxiety from Hen –
she’s too sharp-eyed for that.
    ‘It was fifty thousand pounds, Hen. I mean, that’s a
huge
amount to go out of a personal account.’
    Hen shrugs. ‘But Art says it
wasn’t
personal,’ she insists. ‘Fifty grand isn’t that much in company terms. Rob’s always shifting money around
different accounts. And I’m not surprised poor Art was upset after that woman coming round. Bringing all the old stuff up – it’s going to be stressful for both of you.’
    I fall silent. Beth is the one thing I’ve always found it hard to talk to Hen about. We were pregnant at the same time, though under very different circumstances, and full of plans for how
we would be mums together. Nathan was born just a week before Beth. Hen missed the funeral as a result. I know she felt bad about that, but she didn’t want to leave her baby and I
couldn’t cope with seeing a newborn just then. It was hard for both of us to be apart at the very moment we needed each other the most. During the twelve months that followed we spent less
time together than we had in years. Hen tried, to be fair. But I couldn’t face her and Nathan for a long time. I felt bad about that, but I know Hen understood. She certainly never held it
against me.
    And yet, though it’s never been said, we both know that it’s still difficult for me to see her as a mother – or be reminded of what my own life as a mother would have been
like. At least Hen understood why I needed to call myself a mum after Beth died. Most people seemed to think that made no sense – as if I didn’t really qualify for motherhood. But, to
me, Beth was as real as any other baby and not to be allowed to call myself a mother seemed to deny her very existence. Stillbirth grief is like that – full of stupid little heartaches that
leave you isolated and floundering. There are no memories to hold on to, no known individual with a distinctive personality to mourn, only a sense of something lost, always out of reach.
    Hen puts her hand on my arm. ‘I know it’s difficult even without some stupid woman making ludicrous claims.’ She rests her gaze on me, her normally lively, darting eyes full