Barely time for her sheets to get cold. Thin and nervous-looking, creamy skin – Scottish blood, perhaps? Or Irish? – thick fair curls pulled to the back of her head with a rubber band and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t look as if she belongs here. But then, he wonders, which one of us does look like we belong here? Maybe that’s what all the people who live in houses like this have in common: that we all look like we’re just passing through. And, of course, most of us are. I’ll have to get to know her, he thinks. Find out her story. She looks… interesting. Like she might have a tale or two to tell. Like she might be one of those strangers who could one day become a friend. He thinks about her as he makes his preparations. Marianne, with her long dark hair and her scarlet manicure, watches him silently from the armchair. Today, she is dressed in an olive-green silk shift dress, size ten from the Monsoon sale. It hangs off her in folds, far too large, but it’s a good colour and an elegant cut, and he can always take it in; he’s become handy at many skills, over the years.
