and you were doing exactly what you wanted. You were enjoying yourself. Don’t make him pay for something you regret after the fact.
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear and she had no intention of letting logic get the upper hand. She was steaming, at herself more than Jack, and it was just too bad for anybody else in the way. It was a side of her that she wasn’t especially proud of, this volcanic anger that surfaced in times of deep stress.
The streets, empty of traffic at this pre-dawn hour, flashed by but Sandrine didn’t notice. She was beyond paying attention to anything but her scrambled thoughts and misplaced recriminations. She was still tired, drained physically as well as emotionally but the adrenalin firing through her veins pushed her forward.
When the car drew up outside her apartment house, she said not a word, merely grabbed her bag and launched herself across the pavement and into the foyer like she was heading into battle. She left the passenger door of the car gaping open. She didn’t see Jack’s rueful smile or hear him wish her a good night’s sleep.
It was only later that morning as she sipped her tea that she brought herself up short, stopping with the cup inches away from her lips, as the realisation struck her. She hadn’t talked to Jack the entire trip yet he drove her directly home. She was sure she hadn’t mentioned her address earlier. How did he know where I live?
Chapter Ten
Sandrine wasn’t paying attention to the time, not at all, she was busy cleaning the bathroom but she nonetheless noted that it was 3.12pm precisely that Jack rang for the first of several times that afternoon. She let the call go through to the answering machine.
“Hi, it’s me, Jack. Just want to see how you are. You seemed a little edgy when you left here this morning and I’ve been pretty worried about you. Please give me a call when it’s convenient.”
“You’ll be waiting a damn long time,” she said with a finality she found enormously satisfying at the time. Dressed in a pair of old grey sweat pants and a Harvard t-shirt she’d bought when at college, although not at that college, she’d made good progress on a long-overdue spring clean and everything from the bath to the shower, toilet and hand basin was gleaming like new. The air was thick with the fumes from the chemical cleaners; Heathcliff had wandered in earlier to check things out, sniffed discouragingly and disappeared to another part of the apartment.
While she worked, there was little time for reflection which was exactly how she wanted it. Tchaikovsky drifted in from the living area, matching her mood and providing the necessary impetus to complete the job. From the bathroom, she moved on to the bedroom, sorting through her closet, bagging up a load of old clothes to be donated to Goodwill, and putting aside some shoes destined for the elderly Armenian who worked so diligently and at such modest cost on rejuvenating her favourite footwear.
By that time, two more hours had passed. The telephone rang again. It went to voice mail as well. No message was left and she assumed it was Jack. Almost immediately, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number in caller ID but was sure it was Jack. A message was left but she didn’t bother getting it. She pretty much knew what he’d say.
She showered, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a vibrant earthenware-coloured cashmere sweater and brewed a pot of Earl Grey. Although not especially hungry, she made a tuna sandwich, sharing the remainder of the tin with Heathcliff who gratefully demolished it with a purring intensity that teased only the second smile of the day to her lips.
The deep soft cushions of the sofa, a warm woollen throw and the final chapters of the 2005 translation of Teresa Guiccioli’s Lord Byron’s Life In Italy awaited. The tea was warm and fragrant but she hardly tasted it. The sandwich didn’t interest her. She lasted barely a page of her book before
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear and she had no intention of letting logic get the upper hand. She was steaming, at herself more than Jack, and it was just too bad for anybody else in the way. It was a side of her that she wasn’t especially proud of, this volcanic anger that surfaced in times of deep stress.
The streets, empty of traffic at this pre-dawn hour, flashed by but Sandrine didn’t notice. She was beyond paying attention to anything but her scrambled thoughts and misplaced recriminations. She was still tired, drained physically as well as emotionally but the adrenalin firing through her veins pushed her forward.
When the car drew up outside her apartment house, she said not a word, merely grabbed her bag and launched herself across the pavement and into the foyer like she was heading into battle. She left the passenger door of the car gaping open. She didn’t see Jack’s rueful smile or hear him wish her a good night’s sleep.
It was only later that morning as she sipped her tea that she brought herself up short, stopping with the cup inches away from her lips, as the realisation struck her. She hadn’t talked to Jack the entire trip yet he drove her directly home. She was sure she hadn’t mentioned her address earlier. How did he know where I live?
Chapter Ten
Sandrine wasn’t paying attention to the time, not at all, she was busy cleaning the bathroom but she nonetheless noted that it was 3.12pm precisely that Jack rang for the first of several times that afternoon. She let the call go through to the answering machine.
“Hi, it’s me, Jack. Just want to see how you are. You seemed a little edgy when you left here this morning and I’ve been pretty worried about you. Please give me a call when it’s convenient.”
“You’ll be waiting a damn long time,” she said with a finality she found enormously satisfying at the time. Dressed in a pair of old grey sweat pants and a Harvard t-shirt she’d bought when at college, although not at that college, she’d made good progress on a long-overdue spring clean and everything from the bath to the shower, toilet and hand basin was gleaming like new. The air was thick with the fumes from the chemical cleaners; Heathcliff had wandered in earlier to check things out, sniffed discouragingly and disappeared to another part of the apartment.
While she worked, there was little time for reflection which was exactly how she wanted it. Tchaikovsky drifted in from the living area, matching her mood and providing the necessary impetus to complete the job. From the bathroom, she moved on to the bedroom, sorting through her closet, bagging up a load of old clothes to be donated to Goodwill, and putting aside some shoes destined for the elderly Armenian who worked so diligently and at such modest cost on rejuvenating her favourite footwear.
By that time, two more hours had passed. The telephone rang again. It went to voice mail as well. No message was left and she assumed it was Jack. Almost immediately, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number in caller ID but was sure it was Jack. A message was left but she didn’t bother getting it. She pretty much knew what he’d say.
She showered, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a vibrant earthenware-coloured cashmere sweater and brewed a pot of Earl Grey. Although not especially hungry, she made a tuna sandwich, sharing the remainder of the tin with Heathcliff who gratefully demolished it with a purring intensity that teased only the second smile of the day to her lips.
The deep soft cushions of the sofa, a warm woollen throw and the final chapters of the 2005 translation of Teresa Guiccioli’s Lord Byron’s Life In Italy awaited. The tea was warm and fragrant but she hardly tasted it. The sandwich didn’t interest her. She lasted barely a page of her book before
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