Forbidden or For Bedding?. Julia James

was gone. The affair was over.

      Slowly—very slowly—her fingers curved into the palms of her hand.

      Gouging deep.

      Guy’s car was waiting for him at the kerb. He’d phoned for it as he dressed, knowing that he would want it there for as soon as he’d told Alexa what he must. He had put it off for as long as it was possible. Until it was no longer possible to stay silent. As he walked down the stone steps from the front door of the terraced house of which Alexa’s apartment occupied the top floor, his driver got out and came round to open the rear passenger door for him. He got in, barely acknowledging the gesture.

      As he sank back into the soft leather seat his face remained expressionless.

      Well, it was done. Alexa was out of his life. And she wouldn’t be coming back.

      Guy reached for the neatly folded copy of the Financial Times his driver had placed carefully beside him, and started to read.

      There was no expression in his face. His eyes.

      He would permit none.

      Alexa was cleaning the bathroom. She should have been working, but she couldn’t. She’d tried. She’d mixed colours, got herself ready, put up a brand new canvas, dipped her brush in the colours, lifted it to the canvas.

      But nothing had happened. She’d hung, frozen, like an aborted computer program, unable to continue.

      Jerkily she’d lowered the brush, eased off the surplus paint, and stuck it into turps. Then she’d blinked a few times, stared blankly ahead for a moment, before turning on her heel and walking out of her studio.

      She’d walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. But for some reason she hadn’t been able to make a cup of tea. Or coffee. Or even run the tap for a glass of water. After a little while she’d gone into the bathroom.

      She’d seen the bath could do with a clean, so she’d set to. That had seemed to work. Then she’d moved on to the basin, then the toilet pedestal, then the rest of the surfaces and walls. She rubbed hard, using elbow grease and a lot of household cleaner foaming on the sponge. It seemed to take a lot of cleaning, and she rubbed hard.

      Harder and harder.

      And as she rubbed and scrubbed her brain darted, like dragonflies scything across a pond with sharp, knifing movements. She wondered what the dragonflies in her brain were. Then she knew. Knew by their iridescent wings, their flash as they caught the light.

      They were memories.

      So many memories.

      Stabbing and darting through her head. Memory after memory.

      As sharp as knives.

      Working backwards through time, taking her back, and back, and back.