Instead I give it a hug, standing with my skin pressed up against the cool white of my bedroom wall. I am making it grey with sweat. The windows are open but the shutters are closed to keep out the sunbeams. One fat one comes through the crack like an arrow, stabbing at my clothes, which I’ve left in a pile on the floor. Dust-fairies dance in the light. Margot is reading books out loud. She can’t really read, but she knows the words to most of them in her head, and she turns the pages and tells the story, actually quite well. Her voice makes the silence sing. Before the doorbell rings I hear the footsteps, a broken heartbeat on the paving stones, and I know that Claude is here. Listen! I whisper to Margot. Who could it be? she says. Well it can’t be Sylvie the breadlady, because she’s not allowed at our house any more, I laugh. And it can’t be the peachman because this isn’t the day he comes! says Margot. And it can’t be Papa, because . . . I have had enough of that game.
