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Authors: Roisin Meaney
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but she count biscuits— pah !”
She stalked towards the kitchen, leaving a faint tang of disinfectant in her wake, and Zarek heard her speaking to Anton in precisely the same annoyed tone.
He closed the front door quietly behind him and bounded happily down the stairs, looking forward to two hours of no dramas, no complaints.
—————
The bedroom door opened and Martin walked in. “She’s asleep.”
Irene slipped a chunky silver bangle over her hand. “Good.” She changed her mind and took the bangle off again—it might get in the way when she was drawing. “Did you start the dishwasher?”
He opened the top drawer of his bureau and began rummaging through it. “I did.”
He didn’t look forty-eight. He had the muscle tone of a man years younger. Irene appreciated how he filled his T-shirt, how hard and firm his body was under that grey marl cotton. She loved the way he moved, the way he strode across a room, any room, as if he owned it.
She wondered again if he was having an affair—and again, she didn’t ask.
“You’ll be glad to get the car back,” he said, still riffling through files.
“Sure will,” Irene said, taking a thin gold chain from her jewelry box and wrapping it around her wrist.
“When did they say?”
“Thursday, but I told them I needed it for work. I’ll give them a ring in the morning.”
“You’re an awful liar,” he said in the same neutral tone of voice.
Irene shrugged and reached for her perfume. “No harm done—and the guy will get a fine fat tip if he has it ready for tomorrow.”
She touched the stopper behind her ears and on her wrists, conscious of his presence behind her. She dipped the stopper back into the bottle and dotted perfume on her cleavage. She stood and took her lavender scarf from the bed and draped it around her neck.
“Have fun,” Martin said, pulling out a folder and bending over it.
“You know me.” She rested a palm briefly on his back as she passed. Aching to press against him, to feel his solid bulk all along the length of her, to breathe in his spicy smell. “See you.”
In the hall she took his car keys from their hook and opened the front door. Now that the first night of life drawing had arrived, she was half regretting her impulse to sign up. Did she really want to stare at another woman’s body for two hours? Should she have gone for photography on Wednesdays, or pottery on Thursdays?
The teacher was a mess, with that mop of curly hair and horrendous fashion sense—imagine putting a patterned skirt over those hips. Irene could only hope that she was better at teaching art than dressing herself. If the opportunity arose she might mention the gym, just throw it out to the group, make sure the teacher overheard. She’d be a real challenge, if Irene took her on.
As she drove towards the college she thought she wouldn’t mind being a model for a life drawing class. She’d never been shy about showing off what she had, and what she had was in pretty good nick, thanks to her workouts. Breasts that still pointed in the right direction, a behind that would give Beyoncé a run for her money, long lean thighs. Her Brazilian wax might cause a bit of a scandal, though. The view might be a little too revealing.
She thought about the mechanic who was repairing the car. She’d know when she collected it, she’d know by the way he talked to her if anything was going to happen. She wouldn’t push herself on him, she’d never do that. But she had a feeling he wouldn’t need any encouragement.
Not that she wanted him particularly, not that she wanted any of them. But Martin had put himself beyond her reach, and the emptiness that had caused in her had to be filled. She had to try and fill it, try to put something in its place, or she’d go demented.
She drove through the college gates and pulled into a parking space. She locked Martin’s car and strode towards the entrance, her three-inch heels clacking loudly on
She stalked towards the kitchen, leaving a faint tang of disinfectant in her wake, and Zarek heard her speaking to Anton in precisely the same annoyed tone.
He closed the front door quietly behind him and bounded happily down the stairs, looking forward to two hours of no dramas, no complaints.
—————
The bedroom door opened and Martin walked in. “She’s asleep.”
Irene slipped a chunky silver bangle over her hand. “Good.” She changed her mind and took the bangle off again—it might get in the way when she was drawing. “Did you start the dishwasher?”
He opened the top drawer of his bureau and began rummaging through it. “I did.”
He didn’t look forty-eight. He had the muscle tone of a man years younger. Irene appreciated how he filled his T-shirt, how hard and firm his body was under that grey marl cotton. She loved the way he moved, the way he strode across a room, any room, as if he owned it.
She wondered again if he was having an affair—and again, she didn’t ask.
“You’ll be glad to get the car back,” he said, still riffling through files.
“Sure will,” Irene said, taking a thin gold chain from her jewelry box and wrapping it around her wrist.
“When did they say?”
“Thursday, but I told them I needed it for work. I’ll give them a ring in the morning.”
“You’re an awful liar,” he said in the same neutral tone of voice.
Irene shrugged and reached for her perfume. “No harm done—and the guy will get a fine fat tip if he has it ready for tomorrow.”
She touched the stopper behind her ears and on her wrists, conscious of his presence behind her. She dipped the stopper back into the bottle and dotted perfume on her cleavage. She stood and took her lavender scarf from the bed and draped it around her neck.
“Have fun,” Martin said, pulling out a folder and bending over it.
“You know me.” She rested a palm briefly on his back as she passed. Aching to press against him, to feel his solid bulk all along the length of her, to breathe in his spicy smell. “See you.”
In the hall she took his car keys from their hook and opened the front door. Now that the first night of life drawing had arrived, she was half regretting her impulse to sign up. Did she really want to stare at another woman’s body for two hours? Should she have gone for photography on Wednesdays, or pottery on Thursdays?
The teacher was a mess, with that mop of curly hair and horrendous fashion sense—imagine putting a patterned skirt over those hips. Irene could only hope that she was better at teaching art than dressing herself. If the opportunity arose she might mention the gym, just throw it out to the group, make sure the teacher overheard. She’d be a real challenge, if Irene took her on.
As she drove towards the college she thought she wouldn’t mind being a model for a life drawing class. She’d never been shy about showing off what she had, and what she had was in pretty good nick, thanks to her workouts. Breasts that still pointed in the right direction, a behind that would give Beyoncé a run for her money, long lean thighs. Her Brazilian wax might cause a bit of a scandal, though. The view might be a little too revealing.
She thought about the mechanic who was repairing the car. She’d know when she collected it, she’d know by the way he talked to her if anything was going to happen. She wouldn’t push herself on him, she’d never do that. But she had a feeling he wouldn’t need any encouragement.
Not that she wanted him particularly, not that she wanted any of them. But Martin had put himself beyond her reach, and the emptiness that had caused in her had to be filled. She had to try and fill it, try to put something in its place, or she’d go demented.
She drove through the college gates and pulled into a parking space. She locked Martin’s car and strode towards the entrance, her three-inch heels clacking loudly on
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