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.And then she speaks, quickly.'Maybe I should air the office now? No.Better not.In the morning, then, when the rain stops.' She turns and walks to the door of his office, the sound of her heels loud and decisive in his ears.They both try to open the door at the same time.Their hands touch.A moment of silence falls between them.Arthur has no idea what to say.'It's all right, Arthur.When you're sober, you can go home.So don't look so worried.' She giggles.'I won't pounce.Not my style.I leave that to others.But you need a bath and a hot meal.''Are you sure you don't mind?''Not at all.But do tuck your shirt in, or people really will have something to talk about.'He laughs, and slithers into his waterproof.'You're a treasure.'CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXSipping coffee, Arthur reclines into plump cushions, and stretches his legs to a footstool.He feels regal, lounging on the crushed velvet seat, propped up with his drink, spoiled by a good dinner and open fire.Beneath his clothes, his skin is pink and freshly scrubbed after the hot bath Marcia ran for him before preparing the food.A faint scent of pine needles escapes from the collar of his shirt.Again his eyes grow heavy as the mulch that is chicken, steamed broccoli and roast potato is digested by his stomach.He ate quickly, having neglected lunch and eaten only a small breakfast before leaving for work that morning.And what with all the shocks the day heaped upon him, and the bitter turn in the weather, and all that lies so weighty on his mind, hasn't he the right to such an appetite and the attentions his secretary has lavished on him out of hours? It is a foolish notion, but the small deceit of him idling at the house of a handsome woman, who assists him in his professional life, pleases him.At least this is a secret, in a town full of secrets, that endangers no one.He will rest here while Marcia assembles her collection for him to see – her secret, her mystery – and then he will go home, replenished and strengthened, with a mind ready to cope with Eliot the following day.Arthur puts the coffee mug down on a silver star-shaped coaster and looks at the patio doors his seat is angled toward.Perhaps the sofa has been arranged this way to offer Marcia a view of the garden and the hills beyond.Does she look out there for inspiration? He'd rather be closer to the fire, with the rain lashing against the panes of glass and nothing to see out there of the garden now, save for a few branches and fronds that hang wet and limp from the bushes and trees that grow close to the house, occasionally tapping the glass.And it is an unusual room in which he sits.Not at all what he expected to find in Marcia's home.He's pulled up outside in his car often enough, but never ventured inside.It would have surprised him if he had done so.Dark walls and an indistinct ceiling watch him from all sides.Although the lighting has been intentionally dimmed, traces of ochre and sweeping crimson peek like an ecclesiastic backdrop from among the plethora of plants and waxy creepers she grows from large ceramic and brass pots.There is little in the way of ornamentation, and not a single painting has been hung.What he's seen of the hall and the coppery kitchen is much the same.When he questioned Marcia about the gloom in her home, she confessed to preferring it that way.The change was recent, she said.Something she was trying.'But what about Jeff?' he asked.'Does he like it this dark inside? Is it possible to read in this light?''Oh, I don't worry about Jeff,' she said, and laughed gaily.'Jeff left me,' she added, nonchalantly.'Oh, Marcia, my dear.I'm so sorry.' He tried to think of something to say; it was a shock.Was he the last to know? But she stopped him there, before he could go any further with his stumbling.'It's been over for a long time, really,' she said.'I'm not sorry, though he might be.''But why?' he asked.He must have been mad to leave you, he wanted to say.'Someone came between us,' she said, smiling.'Or rather, I should say, someone found him.Woke him up.Woke us both up, really.And it's for the best.'And after that revelation, where no tears were shed, he sat, curious about her new life alone in this dark house.She has this entire private life he's often tried to visualise, imagining a farmhouse interior, with her prints displayed on white walls, strung between beams, and a garden dramatic with colour.Everything orderly and charming, a house as elegant and gentle as its mistress [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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