Grace

Paul walks toward Grace in baggage claim at Kalamata Airport, the plump face creased in a grin. He looks cool in a cream designer suit and sunglasses; she is conscious of her frayed jeans and the ink stain on her T-shirt. He takes off his Panama hat and bows.

“Eve just texted to tell me you’d be here; apparently we were on the same plane. I’d have swapped seats, if I’d known.” His eyes linger on hers.

She’d known, though. She’d spotted him immediately in the departure lounge at Heathrow. His height and then that handsome face at odds with its disdainful expression. She had waited at the back as he worked his way to the front of every line. On the plane she had slipped past him, head lowered, as he assembled an office of papers on the tray in front of him. She needed quiet, these hours of travel had been hoarded in advance. She was writing by the time the plane roared into the air. She ignored the clinking drinks cart and the offers of food. This was the space she had craved, alone but surrounded by people, safe in the way their flat no longer seemed to be, especially on her own. As the plane descended, she’d come back to herself as though from the depths of a river, the story coating her skin like silt.

“I’ve booked a car.” Paul smiles, inclining his head. “Come along.”

She edges away. She doesn’t want to be forced into conversation with Melly’s husband. She had planned to take the bus.

“Don’t wait for me, I need to buy a present for Eve. I’ll meet you there.”

“I sent them a case of wine. We can say it’s from you as well. Let’s go.” He slides his fingers over hers on the handle of her case, a trick that works. She removes her hand.

“A light traveler, my kind of woman.” His teeth gleam. He leads the way through the airport, head held high, oblivious to the surroundings, the dense flow of language, and the overpowering heat.

The low-slung sports car is waiting for them in the baking parking lot; she is forced to sprawl backward into the bucket-shaped seat. He stretches across her to lock the door, his arm accidentally brushing her breast. She stifles a cry as a wave of panic washes her back to the dumpsters, the leash around her neck, those scrabbling hands. Paul glances at her curiously as the car surges forward. Sweat trickles down her back and she breathes slowly, forcing herself to relax. It’s Paul, for God’s sake, Melissa’s husband, she’s met him before.

He begins to talk as though to an attentive audience. His life is busy: projects, travel, a contract he’s just won from Paris. She tunes out his words. Shops and people slide past, unfinished concrete houses string along the road. Dogs sleep on sidewalks. He accelerates when they leave the town, the yellow hills and motorway blur. The car finds its pace and the engine hums quietly. Paul continues to talk but her eyes close, exhaustion has caught up with her. Since Martin’s been away, she has slept in fitful bursts, missing his warmth; terrified that the gang of boys could burst in, seeking revenge for the guy she stabbed. She hasn’t seen them since but they might be biding their time, waiting to catch her out when she’s alone and asleep. She’s told no one yet, even Martin has no idea, still. In his absence, she’s taken to pushing the kitchen table against the door at night and dozing on the sofa, lights left on, her sleep broken. Her fatigue is overwhelming; lulled by motion, she lets herself sink into sleep.