His feet are freezing.They have been living here two weeks to the day, and he has had the same thought thirteen mornings in a row.It’s just before five, so the sun isn’t up yet. Natalya and the kids are still sleeping, and the house feels boundless and empty and as cold as a train station at three am. Tim glances around, almost expecting to discover a tramp sleeping in a corner.He crosses the lounge and enters the galley kitchen, another over-designed, oversized space, shaped, in this case, like a canal boat. The six-meter countertops running along either side look absurd and empty. They need, Tim thinks, more stuff on them. But Natalya’s against. Natalya likes her surfaces.At the far end, he switches on the little espresso machine, waits for it to warm up, and then makes himself a cup of coffee before returning to the lounge where he sits on the sofa and stares at the blackness of the window. He watches as the sky beyond begins to lighten. He’s never, as a general rule, awake before dawn, but has managed it three times this week.
