‘I meant, I’ll join you upstairs,’ he said in a rough whisper that vibrated through her as if her body were a tubular bell, and he took a small, involuntary step towards her, then stopped.
For a few pulsing half-seconds, neither of them moved.
They stood like statues, frozen, separately bewitched by how that skin-prickling gravitational energy between them was suddenly bright and hard and undeniable. And then Valentina appeared, and the spell snapped, and Dulcie remembered how to breathe and smile and move her legs again.
She made her way upstairs, her head spinning madly.
It was hard to believe that it was still the same day as the one that had started this morning. Waking, she had felt taut and thwarted and trapped, and, rolling out of bed, she had been on the verge of storming into the dressing room and hurling all her clothes into the suitcase and then shinning back down the wisteria outside her window. Only the thought that she was helping Oscar had stopped her from doing so.
Oscar.
She had checked her phone obsessively every day since her brother had gone into the rehab centre even though she knew that he wasn’t allowed his phone. Today was the first day she had forgotten to do so and, feeling horribly guilty, she pulled it out and saw instantly that there was a voice message from Oscar. The floor yawed sideways as if she were standing on the deck of a ship in a rough sea and she clicked on the message and listened.
‘Dulcie, I can’t do this.’ Her brother’s voice was high and ragged with panic and fear, and she felt her stomach somersault. Her mouth tasted sour. She thought she was going to throw up.
‘I can’t do it. It’s too hard. You have to get me out of here, please, Dulcie, please—’
The message got cut off and her fingers moved clumsily over the screen as if she might be able to reach Oscar and pull him to safety.
‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’
For a moment, she didn’t understand that Ettore was even in the room, let alone talking to her. Everything around her was reduced to its most basic form. The red of the curtains, the rectangular outline of the rug beneath her feet.
‘It’s Oscar, he called me— He sounded desperate.’
‘His body is readjusting to sobriety. He will be desperate.’
Ettore’s face stilled, hardened a fraction like the first crystals of ice hardening the surface of a lake in winter and there was a dark edge of impatience to his voice that she hadn’t heard all day as he took a step towards her. ‘I thought he wasn’t supposed to have contact with anyone until the withdrawal stage was over.’
‘He’s not but he must have got hold of his phone somehow, he’s upset…’ Her heart was suddenly a hot, slippery shape, flopping against her ribs, but the rigidity in Ettore’s face was spreading to his body. He was becoming a fortress in front of her eyes.
‘So, you spoke to him?’
His voice cut her panicky thoughts in two, and she glanced up at him, bitterness swelling inside her because this was his fault. He had made her choose again, and she had chosen wrongly.
‘No. He left a message. Not that you care.’
His expression didn’t change but his eyes stilled on her face.
‘Of course I care. Not least, because you’re obviously upset.’ She watched as he turned and closed the door softly, and she felt a rush of fury, because even now, when her brother was in despair, he was worried about someone hearing them argue and wrecking his precious pantomime.
‘All you care about is yourself. You don’t care about me, and you don’t care about Oscar. You couldn’t wait to get him shut up in that clinic and now he’s—’ Her voice broke, and she pressed her hand against her mouth.
‘Dulcie.’
He was beside her now and she stumbled backwards.
‘I need my suitcase.’
She turned and walked swiftly into the dressing room, yanking her bag from where it had been neatly stowed. Pulse thundering, she pulled clothes randomly from the shelves.
‘What are you doing?’ Ettore was blocking her exit.
‘I’m leaving. Unlock the safe. I need my passport. Give me my passport.’
‘You can’t just leave.’
‘Why not? You did. You just walked out on me.’
