A fat raindrop plops onto your head, then another. You swear and dash back inside for your umbrella, suitcase dragging, rucksack bouncing. The house smells of coffee and buttered toast, and you wish you could stay enveloped in its warmth, rather than battling through rain to the airport.
Then you hear his voice from the kitchen, over the murmur of the radio.
She’s just left.
A laugh, low and gravelly. You remember that laugh from years ago, before everything became about ovulation windows and hormone injections.
Come anytime. I can’t wait. Wear that –
The next words are muffled. Your heart hammers so loud he must hear it – but no, he only has ears for whoever’s on the other end of the line.
With a red-faced rush, you know. The new girl at work he mentioned constantly. Caroline says this film’s amazing. Caroline loves this restaurant. Caroline reckons Thailand’s perfect at this time of year.
Then her name ran dry. You hoped she’d left the company.
Behind you, wind batters the front door. In the kitchen, a knife clatters, then is still. There are no more whispered words.
The umbrella is propped, forgotten, in its stand.
You check your watch. You have a plane to catch. You have a baby to grow.
Do you:
a) Rush into the kitchen and confront him?b) Turn and walk out, closing the door with the quietest of clicks?
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