The glasses were out, the wine opened, the flowers displayed, a soft, beguiling orchestral movement already playing. All so welcoming: welcoming and loving and intimate. All so false. Reimann held her close to him – although careful again, not too tightly – and she made herself hold him close in return. She made herself kiss him back, too, with the same fervency. He kept an arm around her shoulders, walked her to a chair and settled her. As he did so he knelt at her side, which Elke considered to be taking the supposed attentiveness too far. He retained her hand, as well. He’d held the hand of a woman called Jutta Sneider like this, Elke thought. With which of them did he practise? ‘You should have let me come last night.’ He’d wanted to – almost insisted upon doing so – because of the way she’d sounded. And he should have done, ignoring her refusal. She appeared wan, pale-faced: unsteady on her feet, even. He didn’t like her to be as frail as this. The feeling wasn’t professional.
