Claire, her head on Robert’s chest, lay listening to the lazy creak of the swing-seat from the terrace below, and from below that the enquiring voices of hens, scratching through the dry grass under the lemon trees. She could hear from the landing the sound of Guida, who must have let herself in, ironing the sheets from the previous visitors – bang of the iron on the metal stand, hiss and puff of steam, warm smell of cotton, dried in the open air. Heaven. There were two weeks ahead of this – the river, the mountains, the hot, unbroken sky – and then the house would be shut up for the autumn and winter, for they were the last guests of the season, and she was glad. They would close the doors on their two weeks and seal them, the house their house, undisturbed by strangers coming after. She closed her eyes again, feeling her hair warm on her cheek, not wanting to move. Beside her, Robert stirred, lifting an arm, yawning. ‘What’s the time?’ Claire peered across at the travel clock.
What do You think about Last Guests Of The Season?
