Her fingers danced an angry tattoo.
Jack did like to listen to her singing. ‘Ah, there’s nothing like the old songs,’ he would exclaim, evening after evening, as she rose from the piano. But it was the ‘How about a kiss for me, Mrs. Fleming?’ that she really dreaded.
It was months now since Trix had written anything, without crossing it out or tearing it up that same day.
‘Being married to Jack is driving me mad.’
Horrified, she stared at what she’d written. She looked round, quickly. Silly, stupid girl, there was no-one watching. Not here in her dressing room, where she’d moved her desk so she could write when she couldn’t sleep, nor in the deserted drawing room at the other end of the house. Probably not in the kitchen either, she thought with a hysterical giggle, for the cook would
