3.2
A week later and Yvette was sitting at her desk. The room was dark, the only light an Anglepoise lamp shining its circle of light on her sketch of the deranged woman with the screaming face. The work hadn’t progressed much past her initial effort. She still felt far from translating the sketch into paint. All week she’d been pampered by Heather, who brought early morning cups of tea to her bedside, baked savoury slices and quiches, prepared stupendously zingy salads for dinner, and whipped up wholemeal cakes for snacks. She’d even driven Yvette to work a few times and hung around for her to finish her shift. Perhaps that’s why Yvette hadn’t been feeling creative. Suddenly, her life had become soft as feathers.
She clasped her hands behind her head and arched her back. Angus was in th
