Orson wanted to ask her not to go. The wanting arrived while Anouk was searching his kitchen drawer for string, wearing his old cardigan over her dress because she’d come downstairs cold. It was not a noble moment. She was swearing at a knot, and he wanted the next morning to contain her doing something equally unremarkable.
“Here,” he said, handing her scissors.
“I could have won.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’ve seen the string.”
She cut it and tied the paper round the small parcel she was taking to Meriel: a book and a thank-you card. Then she turned towards him, still holding the scissors safely closed in one hand.
“What is it?”
He could have said nothing. He had become good at making an expression into an inconvenience nobody needed to attend to.
“I’d like you not to be leaving tomorrow.”
She set the scissors…
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