Anouk carried a loaf, two pears and a packet of washing powder up the stairs in Varelle and wished Orson could see how unromantic her hands were. One handle had cut a red line across her fingers. The loaf was trying to escape. The washing powder had become, through some failure of engineering, the heaviest substance in the world.
She got the door open with her elbow and deposited everything on the table.
The room was exactly as she remembered: pale walls, a narrow bed, a desk under a high window and a cupboard that opened only if the chair was moved. The kitchen was shared with the other room on the floor, presently empty. The owner had left clean towels and a note confirming the arrangement for Orson’s October visit. All ordinary, all paid for, all chosen.
She loved being there.
She missed him so sharply that for a…
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