Read Online Close My Eyes by Sophie McKenzie - Free Book Online Page B

she grows older each time, so that she’s always the age she would
have been if she’d lived.
    Maybe the age she
is
. . . The thought strikes me so hard I actually drop the mug I’m holding. It bounces onto the countertop with a thud that echoes loudly in the early morning
air. Could I be dreaming of a
real
person?
    Is such a thing even possible?
    I sit down at the table, listening as the rush and hiss of the kettle coming to the boil fills the room. I rarely remember anything specific from the dreams, just a vague and fading sense of her
face: once a rosy-cheeked baby, then a chubby, smiling toddler and now, almost eight years old, an olive-skinned little girl with soft brown curls, like I had when I was younger, with Art’s
huge brown eyes.
    In my dreams she’s alive and she’s perfect.
    I drink my tea, go back to bed and refuse to let myself think about either Beth or Lucy O’Donnell. After a while I fall asleep again. When I wake up it’s almost nine-thirty. I can
hear Lilia singing along to her iPod as she vacuums downstairs. I turn over. There’s no sign of Art. Which isn’t surprising. He’s always out the door by seven. There is a note on
his pillow, however. I reach over, groggily, and pull it closer.
    Wish this was flowers. Love you, Ax
    I teach today’s class in a bit of a daze. I take four two-hour adult-education classes here at the Art & Media Institute each week – all on aspects of creative
writing. It’s not well paid and, as Art pointed out the other day, it’s so part-time it’s not even really ‘a proper job.’ I’m waiting for a lift when one of the
women from the class corners me. It’s Charlotte West, all designer jeans, sleek blonde ponytail and pushy sense of entitlement.
    ‘Geniver?’ Charlotte’s voice is wheedling, her accent pure Home Counties. ‘I wonder if I might have a word?’
    I scan the lifts. All three of them seem to be stuck on the first floor so I force my mouth into a welcoming smile. ‘Sure,’ I say.
    Charlotte moves closer and I have to stop myself taking a step away from her. She’s in her early forties, I’d guess – a little older than me, though roughly the same age as
most of my writing classes. She looks good for her age – slim and groomed. Today she’s teamed her trademark Calvin Klein jeans with an emerald-green boat-neck top that brings out the
colour of her eyes.
    ‘How can I help?’ I continue.
    ‘I re-read
Rain Heart
again,’ Charlotte says, her eyes shining. ‘It’s so brilliant.
Such
an inspiring book.’
    ‘Thank you.’ I feel awkward and not just because Charlotte is gushing. Of my three published books, I actually think
Rain Heart
is the weakest. The plot – about a
woman whose husband has an affair with the wife of his business partner – has more than a couple of holes, and the characters seem wooden and unconvincing to me now. Ironically, it sold
better than the others. In fact, it’s the only one still in print.
    I edge away. Charlotte follows, backing me into the corner between the wall and the first lift. I get a whiff of her perfume – one of those dark, sweet, cloying scents meant for velvet
dresses and expensive restaurants.
    ‘I was wondering where you got the idea from?’ Charlotte goes on.
    I sigh inwardly. This is the most common question writers get asked and, to my mind, one of the hardest to answer.
    ‘I thought perhaps the story came from real life?’ she adds.
    ‘No.’ I hesitate, wondering what to tell her. I could offer up the truth as far as I know it, that
Rain Heart
came from my imagination: a blend of half-thoughts and ideas
filtered through a couple of newspaper articles, five minutes of overheard gossip at a bus stop and the inside track on two friends’ heartbreaks.
    And yet there’s something unsettling about the intensity of her gaze that holds me back from confiding any of this information. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte . . .’ I glance
pointedly at my watch.
    ‘Oh, right .