incessantly.
Suddenly the only person she had to care about was herself. There was no one to look after, no one to share with and cook for, just…her. Marianne Buchanan. And she didn’t even have a TV to serve as an opiate against the constant longing for Zeke.
She’d sat up in bed as that thought hit, furious with herself. Wouldn’t Zeke just love it if he thought she was mopey and miserable! Well, she wasn’t—she wouldn’t let herself be.
She had forced herself to get dressed and eat some breakfast and then she had cleaned the bedsit from top to bottom, which had taken most of the day. She didn’t think it had ever been really cleaned since the house had been converted to the charity shop, with the bedsit and a storage area for the shop’s excess stock—plus a small bathroom—above.
When she had finished the bedsit was squeaky clean and sanitary and she’d been exhausted, but she had made herself go to the cinema while the curtains dried in front of the gas fire; when she’d got home she’d put them up again—hoping the creases would drop out by themselves—and then had fallen into bed and was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She had written to her father the first evening at the bedsit—just a short note, telling him not to worry and that she was fine, but giving no address—and on the Monday evening she’d written a longer letter, which had been reassuring and warm, but she still hadn’t disclosed her whereabouts.
She wasn’t quite sure how she had come by the knowledge, but she was certain in her own mind that her father’ssympathies were more with Zeke than his daughter, and she found she didn’t trust her father not to give Zeke the address if he asked. It would be well meant, she had no doubt about that, but disastrous as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t risk it. In a week or two, when she was thinking straighter, she would contact Zeke herself with regard to the divorce, but for now just getting through each day was enough.
But she was managing—she was coping well, she assured herself as she walked home to the bedsit at the end of her second week of working for the Polinkskis. She still had a great lead weight where her heart should be but she wasn’t crying herself to sleep every night now, so that was an improvement overall. Definitely. And in spite of her misery one thing had clarified in her mind. She was going to go to university and get that degree she’d put on hold.
She was a survivor. Before the breakdown of her marriage she would never have termed herself such, but she was a survivor, all right. Zeke, Liliana, life—she wasn’t going to let it all beat her. As long as she didn’t see Zeke she’d get through this.
‘Marianne?’
She froze, the shock all the more drenching because of the nature of her thoughts. For a wild, desperate moment she hoped the big dark figure that had just stepped out of the shop doorway was a figment of her fevered imagination, but then Zeke took a step towards her, and with an instinct that was pure self-preservation she turned and ran.
He caught her before she had even reached the end of the street—as he’d been bound to. At six foot two and with the physique and fitness of a honed athlete it had been a foregone conclusion, she thought despairingly, as his hand on her arm swung her round to face him and almost lifted her off her feet in the process.
‘What the hell did you take off for like that?’ he snarled furiously. ‘What sort of a monster do you think I am? I’m not going to hurt you, Marianne.’
Not going to hurt her? For a second she almost laughed in his face. He was killing her, couldn’t he see that?
‘How…how did you find me?’ she asked shakily, trying to shake his hands off her arms but to no avail.
‘Does it matter?’ he asked irritably, and then as she continued to stare up into his dark face he added in a quieter tone, ‘I hired someone to track you down, if you want to know.
Suddenly the only person she had to care about was herself. There was no one to look after, no one to share with and cook for, just…her. Marianne Buchanan. And she didn’t even have a TV to serve as an opiate against the constant longing for Zeke.
She’d sat up in bed as that thought hit, furious with herself. Wouldn’t Zeke just love it if he thought she was mopey and miserable! Well, she wasn’t—she wouldn’t let herself be.
She had forced herself to get dressed and eat some breakfast and then she had cleaned the bedsit from top to bottom, which had taken most of the day. She didn’t think it had ever been really cleaned since the house had been converted to the charity shop, with the bedsit and a storage area for the shop’s excess stock—plus a small bathroom—above.
When she had finished the bedsit was squeaky clean and sanitary and she’d been exhausted, but she had made herself go to the cinema while the curtains dried in front of the gas fire; when she’d got home she’d put them up again—hoping the creases would drop out by themselves—and then had fallen into bed and was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She had written to her father the first evening at the bedsit—just a short note, telling him not to worry and that she was fine, but giving no address—and on the Monday evening she’d written a longer letter, which had been reassuring and warm, but she still hadn’t disclosed her whereabouts.
She wasn’t quite sure how she had come by the knowledge, but she was certain in her own mind that her father’ssympathies were more with Zeke than his daughter, and she found she didn’t trust her father not to give Zeke the address if he asked. It would be well meant, she had no doubt about that, but disastrous as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t risk it. In a week or two, when she was thinking straighter, she would contact Zeke herself with regard to the divorce, but for now just getting through each day was enough.
But she was managing—she was coping well, she assured herself as she walked home to the bedsit at the end of her second week of working for the Polinkskis. She still had a great lead weight where her heart should be but she wasn’t crying herself to sleep every night now, so that was an improvement overall. Definitely. And in spite of her misery one thing had clarified in her mind. She was going to go to university and get that degree she’d put on hold.
She was a survivor. Before the breakdown of her marriage she would never have termed herself such, but she was a survivor, all right. Zeke, Liliana, life—she wasn’t going to let it all beat her. As long as she didn’t see Zeke she’d get through this.
‘Marianne?’
She froze, the shock all the more drenching because of the nature of her thoughts. For a wild, desperate moment she hoped the big dark figure that had just stepped out of the shop doorway was a figment of her fevered imagination, but then Zeke took a step towards her, and with an instinct that was pure self-preservation she turned and ran.
He caught her before she had even reached the end of the street—as he’d been bound to. At six foot two and with the physique and fitness of a honed athlete it had been a foregone conclusion, she thought despairingly, as his hand on her arm swung her round to face him and almost lifted her off her feet in the process.
‘What the hell did you take off for like that?’ he snarled furiously. ‘What sort of a monster do you think I am? I’m not going to hurt you, Marianne.’
Not going to hurt her? For a second she almost laughed in his face. He was killing her, couldn’t he see that?
‘How…how did you find me?’ she asked shakily, trying to shake his hands off her arms but to no avail.
‘Does it matter?’ he asked irritably, and then as she continued to stare up into his dark face he added in a quieter tone, ‘I hired someone to track you down, if you want to know.
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