2.17
She was pushing a trolley down the canned-foods aisle of her local supermarket, her heart swelling to Maria McKee’s breathless ohs and pleading heavens spilling from a hidden sound system in as mellifluous a voice she’d ever heard. The desperate longing of the song perfectly matched her mood. She could scarcely believe she were capable of such slushy emotion. She was an embarrassment to herself. The only redeeming feature of the song was that it wasn’t sung by Bonnie Tyler.
Yvette hadn’t heard from Varg since he dropped her back at her flat after the concert in Fremantle last week. A swift drive through the suburbs and she’d spent the whole journey swooning, reading into his silence a passion commensurate with her own. When he pulled up outside her flat he leaned across the console,
