I stretched luxuriously, checked for lingering Tex-Mex breath and rolled counterclockwise. Empty, tangled sheets were disconcerting before the sound of a whistling kettle reassured me. While I’d have preferred a little spooning, Oscar’s absence meant there was still time to make myself look like a naturally pretty-in-the-morning person, which I am not. According to the space-age alarm clock on his bedside table, it was a quarter past four: half an hour until the first phone hook-up. There goes the leisurely breakfast, I thought; but at least I wouldn’t be forced to eat anything cooked by Oscar. I tiptoed nude to the bathroom, collecting and donning various items of clothing strewn along the way. Face clean, hair smoothed and mouthwash gargled, I was ready to face the morning. I went to the kitchen. Oscar was out on the deck looking scrumptiously rumpled in the dewy dawn, scrolling through his BlackBerry and oblivious to my presence. Checking the coverage of last night’s debate, I guessed.
