TWENTY-EIGHT
It was almost six-thirty when Chaise heard Marianne getting out of bed, yawning, padding into the bathroom. The shower went on whilst he busied himself preparing coffee, together with bacon and eggs. By the time the fourth piece of toast had popped up she came into the sitting room, covered in his white bathrobe, rubbing her jet black hair with another towel, and she grinned. “Good morning.”
“Did you sleep well?”
She nodded and walked over to the little glass-topped dining table, positioned under the window, and sat down. She looked out through the net curtains to the market square below. “It looks cold,” she said in a faraway voice.
He put the plate down in front of her, placing the cafetière next to it. “If you’re not feeling up to a full English, I quite understand.”
“
