“Marina loves you both. You don’t belong to her, but she’s watched you grow up. It’s a cause of great unhappiness that Clemmie and she don’t get along.”
Jake took a sip and went to sit on the sofa. “Clemmie’s just confused.”
“Have you met this Joe?”
“No.”
“I wonder if he’s any good.”
“I doubt it. She doesn’t seem that inspired by him. Saying she’s in love is bollocks.”
“When you get to my age, you realize that you can’t live people’s lives for them. If it doesn’t work out, she’ll come back.”
“No, she won’t. She’s too proud for that. She’ll earn her money and scoot back to India at the first opportunity.”
* * *
Marina remained at her desk. When she reached out to pick up her Biro, she saw that her hand was trembling. She rubbed it as if nursing an injury. While she rubbed, she considered her options. There weren’t many. But there was one. She bit her lip and turned her eyes to the window. Outside the sea was calm. The sky was clear. A few gulls hovered like gliders on the wind. If pushed, there was one card in her deck that she could still play. One person she could turn to for help. But did she dare go back and open the door she had so firmly shut years ago? Her eyes welled with tears and she put her head in her hands; she now realized that there was simply no other way.
The following morning Clementine awoke to the shrill ringing of the alarm clock. At first she wondered where she was. She opened her eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings: the beige curtains, the white walls, the unremarkable pictures hanging there. Then she inhaled the very masculine smell and remembered. Fighting a wave of homesickness, she propped herself up on her elbows. Joe lay groaning beside her. She watched him throw his arm over his face to shield it from sunshine breaking through the curtains and felt nothing but her sinking heart. She didn’t love Joe, and right now, as he moaned like a dying dog, she found him intensely irritating.
She climbed out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. Her legs felt heavier than ever. She washed her face and tied her hair up. She was only twenty-three, but she looked old and tired. She thought of Rafa and the way she had rebuffed him. Her behavior hadn’t been very mature. He had apologized, and she had made it very clear that in spite of her words, she hadn’t forgiven him. Well, she’d put it right.
In a flurry of enthusiasm she washed and blow-dried her hair, leaving it loose to fall onto her shoulders. She applied her makeup with care, masking the shadows beneath her eyes with concealer and accentuating her lashes with mascara. You never know, she thought hopefully. He might come looking for me in the office. She chose an Emporio Armani navy suit that she had never worn, primarily because she felt too grown up in it, and a pair of heels. Rafa would appreciate those. If he did come looking for her, she was determined he’d find a woman in the place of the child he had rowed with. She didn’t bother to kiss her lover goodbye; he had fallen back to sleep anyway.
She popped into the Black Bean Coffee Shop on the way to work. Standing in the queue she remembered the first time she had seen Rafa. She even remembered his smell of sandalwood. She cast her eyes around the café, hoping that by some miracle he had decided to have his morning coffee in town. But it was full of the usual young mothers with toddlers and businessmen on their way to the office. She noticed a couple of men raise their eyes above their newspapers and glance at her appreciatively. She felt good in her suit.
Remembering that Mr. Atwood had an important meeting that morning, she arrived at Atwood and Fisher laden with coffees, muffins, and a hot chocolate for Sylvia. Mr. Atwood was sitting in the lounge area with a couple who had come in search of a house to buy. He glanced at her, then did a double take, losing his train of thought and stammering.
Clementine smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Atwood. I’ve brought you coffee and muffins.” She placed them on the table in front of them.
“Muffins! My favorite,” said the husband, picking one up and taking a bite.
“Very efficient secretary,” said his wife, eyeing her suit enviously.
“I only employ the very best,” said Mr. Atwood, puzzled.
Clementine left them and returned to her desk. “Thanks for the hot chockie,” said Sylvia, taking in the transformation. “I’m loving the suit. That look is really working for you.”
“I’ve decided I no longer want to be me,” Clementine declared, sitting down and switching on her computer.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Everything.”
“Not anymore. It’s good to see a woman in heels. It shows you mean business.”