the wildlife in Spain. A wolf or a mountain cat, perhaps? Whatever it was, she doubted anything pinned it down.
Jane went to bed slightly drunk, thinking of Mike. Making love? In that measured English accent. Which century had he wandered out of? But she liked his honesty and humility and even his gaucheness. Thank god for someone not as polished and plausible as William, who would make a move on anyone who stood still long enough. Well, that had been true enough in the early days, but towards the end he’d been entranced with just one person and it wasn’t her.
Mike’s company over the past two evenings had been a pleasant change from too much time spent on her own. She couldn’t fault his behaviour. She’d glimpsed his intelligence and perception, but equally she recognised the signs and needed to be careful. It was the shy and awkward ones who wanted too much.
What, even if she felt like it, would be the point? In a few weeks they’d be gone from here and living halfway around the world from one another. The world was blighted by people disappointed in love. She wrestled with her pillow, awash with competing thoughts. Mike’s fingers winding through hers. The warmth of his body against hers on the cold walk home.
She fell asleep on well-spun words. What you didn’t feel wouldn’t hurt. What you didn’t dwell on wouldn’t bring you down.
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