Alone now, Clemence opens the balcony door to let fresh air inside, which is all she needs anyway. She’s already made it more than halfway through the summer without air conditioning—she looks at the machine hulking in the corner. And then she regards the rest of the room which is, thankfully, tidy—she hadn’t been expecting company. The great benefit of owning so little is that it’s easy to keep things in order. Clemence straightens the pillows on her daybed anyway, admiring the effect. She has started to love this space, which was never part of her plan. So is itcheating? And wouldn’t an air conditioner, such a modern convenience, acomfort, make things even worse? She’s supposed to be abstemious.
She remembers the books she’d dropped by the door, and picks them up again, bringing them over to the empty shelf where she arranges them by author. It’s not much, doesn’t even begin to fill that one shelf, but this is just the start, and she’s looking forward to never charging her e-reader again.
Running her finger along the short row of spines, she turns when she hears Charles coming, taking the stairs two at a time. He’s no longer panting. The guy’s got great stamina, really, when he’s not bogged down by a hundred-pound weight. Clemence still has her hand on the books.
“You like to read?” Charles asks when he sees her. She guesses this is a world that’s foreign to him. Remembering that he’d known who Mr. Rochester was, but no doubt he’d seen it in a movie, or some old girlfriend had told him the plot ofJane Eyre.
She tells him, “Ido. I’m kind of rebuilding my library. Starting over.”
“And you’re a writer?” he asks. No doubt, he remembers her and Jillian blathering on about Clemence living a life like a woman from a book.
“Well, Iused to be.” Clemence steps away from the shelf now and walks over to the patio door, to put some space between them. “It was my job, but Igot laid off last year.”
“Anything Imight have read?”
Clemence hates that question. “Iguess that depends what you read,” she says. While it was unlikely that Charles had subscribed toWedding Belles, what did his proximity to her work have to do with anything?
He looks put out by her dismissal. Points at the A/C in the corner. “Listen, you’re going to have to hold off on using this for a while. Idon’t know why, but it’s overloading the circuit. The wiring here’s a bit wonky.”
Clemence says, “Iknow.” The fridge is plugged into an extension cord running to an outlet in the bathroom. “But Imean, thank you. For trying. For dragging this thing all the way up here.”
He turns around on his way out the door. “Ithought you were writing a book,” he tells her. “What your friend said.”
Clemence curses Jillian’s candour. “It’s more an experiential thing.”
“So you’re just doing a lot of eating and praying?”
“Imean,” says Clemence, giving what she hopes is a fey shrug. “What else is there, after all?”
He says, “Iguess so.” He peels the sleeve of his wet T-shirt away from his biceps. “It’s really hot.”
“It’s not so bad as long as you don’t keep running up and down the stairs.”
He says, “Thank you for the water, though.”
“Any time.”
Naomi sends Clemence anEdible Arrangement, which Mrs. Yeung has to carry all the way up to her door.
“Icould have come down to get it,” says Clemence. The arrangement is heavy, the stairs are a lot.
Mrs. Yeung follows Clemence into the apartment. “Your friend says she’s worried about you. That you’re isolated, and not working, and she can’t really get involved, because she’s too busy with her work.” Clemence looks confused. “What?” says Mrs. Yeung. “Iread the card. Needed to see who it was for.”
“But my name was on the envelope.” Clemence pulls it out of the arrangement, her name prominently displayed.
“Okay,” Mrs. Yeung admits. “Ialso wanted to see who it was from. And why she had sent it. My house, my rules.” She points to the oversized citrus at the heart of the arrangement. “Are you going to eat the pomelo?”
“You want it?” Apomelo seems an acceptable payment for delivery, even factoring in the violation of privacy.
Mrs. Yeung accepts the fruit, holding it close like a baby, but she isn’t ready to go yet, looking around the apartment, peeking behind the bathroom door. “No rabbits,” she says, almost surprised.
“Not a single one,” Clemence affirms.
Mrs. Yeung rubs the knob at the end of the daybed. “This is a beautiful bed. It’s brass, just needs some polish. It’s high end. You’re lucky to have it.” Stopping at the shelf. “But this is new.”
“Ifound it.”
“Knock on wood,” says Mrs. Yeung, as she does so, humming her approval as she hears the solid sound. “This is nice. You could leave it when you go.”
