do you want?’ he persisted.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘Good, because that’s what you’ve got.’ And he picked up the tea and tipped it down the sink.
She swallowed, stunned at how much that had hurt. But then it was meant to. She knew all the moves.
‘You prefer coffee?’ She didn’t make the mistake of offering to make him some, but said, ‘I’ll remember that for next time. In the meantime, if you need anything you know where to find me.’ And without waiting for him to respond, to tell her to get lost, stay away, she walked back out into the garden.
Back to the witch hazel she’d been rescuing when he’d kissed her.
Her head told her to keep going, but she refused to leave a job half done and she knelt down to finish her rescue mission. Only when she attempted to unravel the tightly coiled stem of the bindweed did she discover that her hands were shaking so much that she was forced to tuck them beneath her arms to hold them still.
Dom picked up the toast and, tight-lipped, he tossed it in the bin. Then he picked up his bags and carried them upstairs to the bedroom he’d shared for one sweet, perfect year with Sara.
Last night the only scent he’d been aware of was the lingering ghost of her perfume clinging to her clothes.
He dropped his suitcase and strained to find it again, to cling to that last lingering essence of the woman he loved.
But it evaded him. Today, the only smell was that of a house locked up and unlived-in for too long. And he opened a window.
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