ELENA
It was Thursday when Daniel Moreau arrived at eleven.
I heard Petra downstairs. She used her warm voice for people she genuinely liked and then his footsteps on the stairs. He knocked on my open office door and leaned against the frame with his hands in his pockets and the easy grin that had not changed since university.
"You look good," he said. "Pregnancy suits you."
"Come in, Daniel."
He came in and sat across from my desk without being invited. He looked around the office with obvious interest of someone seeing it properly for the first time.
"Your gallery looks great."
"Thank you, Dan."
Daniel Moreau had asked me out once, at the end of our second year. I had told him it was complicated which was the truth, because he was Isla's older brother and some lines, once crossed
