In the morning, I woke to the pressure of Elliot’s arm across my waist. I slipped from beneath its dead weight, careful not to wake him, and went into the bathroom. In the mirror my eyes were light-lidded and bright, and colour had returned to my cheeks in an oestrogen-fed bloom. For a moment I wondered if we had consummated the passion of the previous night, but remembered the abdominal cramp, and Elliot’s concern. He lay now deep in sleep and had experienced an angelic conversion in the steady morning light.
The bedside clock read half past seven, and I wondered if Mabel was already at the desk. My dress was crushed beneath the blankets and, when I slipped it on, I made a feeble attempt to straighten it. Mabel would not be fooled. From under the bed, I retrieved my bag and shoes, steppe
