She was propped up on one elbow in his big, squeaky bed in the apartment above the shop, her eyes wide open and staring at him, her hair sticking up, her neck pink and flushed.

“What…Where…”

“Is it that bad, waking up with me?” she said.

His eyes adjusted to the almost-dark. The unfamiliar, shadowy shapes consolidated themselves into his wardrobe and chest of drawers.

“Shh.” She reached out to touch his face. “You’re safe.”

“Am I?” He’d jerked away from her. A reflex. He tried to force himself to relax.

“Do you remember what you were dreaming?”

“No.” Deep breaths. “I’m not used to this.”

“Me neither.” She touched his shoulder now, running her finger along the scar. “How did you get this?”

“An accident in my father’s workshop.”

This seemed to satisfy her. She trailed her finger slowly down his body to the wider scar on his side. “What about this one?”

“An accident in my father’s workshop.”

“It seems you had a lot of accidents back then.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t you?” He pulled himself up in the bed and fumbled about for the lamp switch so he could see his watch-face properly. Click, and the room was bathed in orange. Genevieve squeaked and hid under the sheets.

“My God, it’s almost ten!”

An audible sigh from under the eiderdown.

“We’ve been asleep for hours.” Irritated, he grabbed the sheets and yanked them off her. Exposed, she squealed again but then giggled and stretched her arms out for him. Her skin was beautifully creamy in the lamplight. He was tempted to let himself be drawn back in. But as she reached for him, an image from his dream flickered back. The plant outside his mother’s window; the green, curling tendrils…He pulled away from her and got up.

“It’s your dream, isn’t it?” she said softly.

“No.” It was as though she had found a way under his skin to the raw flesh. You couldn’t have someone under your skin like that. “It’s nothing to do with the dream. You should get back.”

“Back to Robert?” She rolled onto her back. “I don’t ever want to go back.”

“Don’t be silly.” He began searching about on the floor for his clothes. They were all intertwined with hers. As if even their clothing had been making love. Again he thought of that climbing plant and shuddered. Picked up his shirt.

“He thinks I’m pregnant.”

He dropped his shirt where he’d found it. “You’re not, are you?”

“Of course not. I said it to keep him off me.”

“That was silly.”

“I know.” She started to cry. “I just can’t stand for him to touch me. Not anymore. I meant it, you know—when I told you I was going to end that side of my marriage.”