The Girl in His Eyes

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The face in the window stared back at her. Hers, yet not hers, it blurred into a jelly of reflected faces and the shifting darkness beyond.

She would be there, soon. With her mother – with him. She would have to say the right things, laugh in the right places. Pretend everything was alright.

Laura picked up her overnight bag, left the station and began the slog up Wimbledon Hill. Lorries shuddered past, splashing her jeans. She forced her umbrella into the wind. Her body felt flimsy, like one of those skeleton leaves clinging to the trees along the road.

At the top of the hill she turned into a side road then left into Elgin Drive. Slower now, past the line of stern 1930s houses. Number 31 loomed behind its ten-foot, ruler-flat hedge. The Porsche wasn’t in the driveway.

She opened the gate, hesitating. She didn’t want to go into this house again – not now, not ever. What if she turned around and went home, said she wasn’t feeling well? It wasn’t far from the truth. The warning signs were back: a thudding heart, a prickling beneath the skin. But she drew in her breath and made herself walk up the path and press the doorbell.

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