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The lift doors opened and she rushed gratefully inside, willing the doors to close before he could co the air, the space, her line of sight—everything

She stared straight ahead at their twin reflections, blurred lines in the glass: her in last night’s dress and him broad, bronzed and bare-chested

She bowed her head ‘You don’t need to do this’

‘I’ll see you into the car’

The rest of the trip down thirty floors was silent but for the whoosh of the lift She stared at her shoes The satin toe of one was scuffed His feet beside hers were bare She turned her head

With infinite slowness the lift finally bumped to a stop and the doors eased open She stepped out into the plush, hushed reception area Ahead, the glass doors screened the city—the world she knew, the world she was desperate to reclaim Anywhere but here

‘This doesn’t feel right,’ he said, suddenly grabbing her hand ‘This doesn’t feel right at all Did I say so?’

They were allass table laden with fruit stood in their way A car rolled into view

He swung her round and she looked up into his face She e of his nose, the soft pillow of his lower lip She’d never see theain

‘I’m sorry,’ she said ‘You’re just not my type’

He winced as if she’d slapped him and stepped back

A doorlass The doors were opened She looked at the roll of burgundy carpet spread out before her, ending at the gutter

The car door was opened She stepped inside

‘Nobody is,’ she whispered as the car sped away

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE WAITING ROOM at the clinic was light and bright and cheerful Magazines lay neatly stacked in a wall rack and a water cooler offered its shimmery blue contents silently beneath

Above the sofa opposite a screen flashed news from an announcer as a tape of stories ran underneath To her left the white-uniformed staff competently filed and welcos