Not that the father looks like one. In truth, Graham Hutchinson is quite ordinary looking. His hair is receding, but this is redeemed by its distinguished-looking silver color. Sharp blue eyes peering out of horn-rimmed glasses add to the professorial look.
Curiously, Amy has no photos of her mother, Julie Hutchinson, who died of a heart attack when Amy was fourteen. I’ve seen pictures of Julie Hutchinson, and Amy bears a startling resemblance to her mother. Graham Hutchinson hasn’t remarried, devoting his life to his daughter and his work. I wonder if every time Hutchinson looks at his daughter he can’t help but see his dead wife.
I imagine Amy sleeping here each night. What does she dream of? Hope for? At thirty-five, I’m only two years older than her, yet it seems as if more than years separate us. We are two strangers who share geography, but no familiar territory.
I can smell her perfume in this room. It’s a powerful, provocative scent, and I like it. Abruptly, I get to my feet, knowing there’s nothing more dangerous than flirting with that thought. Erasing all traces of my presence, I settle down to wait.
3
AMY
––––––––
Sunday, July 11
I stumble on the mat outside my front door and clutch the door handle in an attempt to regain my balance.
“One too many Dom Pedros for you,” says an amused voice behind me. Darren’s voice. Oh, yes, he’d followed me home.
I don’t normally indulge in Dom Pedros. Too many calories, all that ice cream and whiskey, but I needed some liquid help to survive Darren’s post-movie analysis. Why can’t people watch a movie without feeling compelled to dissect it for hours afterward?
He moves closer, his breath hot on my neck. “Hmm, your hair smells nice.”
“Thanks.” I angle my head away from the blast of popcorn-flavored breath. Why did I invite him back to my place? What was I thinking? “Where are my keys?” I mutter, scrounging in my handbag.
“Need any help?” Darren asks.
“I got it.” I attempt to insert the front door key into the lock.
Darren stretches out his hand as if to take the key from me.
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Is this your house?”
He drops his hand. “Just trying to be the gentleman.”
“Don’t pout,” I admonish him, suppressing a sigh. “Perhaps I don’t feel like being a lady right now.”
He smiles, appeased, and I think how malleable most men are. How boring. “Coffee?” I ask, stepping into the entrance hall.
Darren follows me inside. “Yes, please.”
“Help yourself.” I wave a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll have chamomile tea. No milk, no sugar.”
Darren wanders into my kitchen, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Must be my helpful nature.”
I slide onto a bar stool and watch him open and close cupboard doors, looking for mugs. I toy with offering him some directional tips but decide it’s more fun this way. This is Darren’s first time in my house and it’s looking to be his last. The red roses on Friday were the clincher. I expected more creativity from a whitewater rafting guide, but it appears the package only has room for a tanned, muscled body and an easy-going, flirtatious air.
Although Darren is harmless, I’m feeling moody and restless. Such a pity the warm Dom Pedro glow is wearing off.
While Darren fills the kettle with water, he launches into a lengthy monologue on last weekend’s rafting expedition, flashing me multiple grins as he elaborates on class fives and monster hydraulics. I have no idea what he’s going on about, but I notice his dentist has done a far better bleaching job than mine. I must get the name from him, I think absently.
“I’m going to freshen up,” I interrupt, handing Darren an assortment of cookies on a serving platter in the hope that chewing will take priority over talking.
I head toward the staircase, intending to use my en-suite bathroom to do the necessaries. The staircase is my home’s showpiece. It serves not only an aesthetic purpose, but also a practical one—it keeps away all acquaintances with small children. But now, confronted with the steeply spiraling steps, I look at my killer heels and decide instead to use the guest bathroom downstairs. There’s no way I want to risk falling down the stairs and giving River Man an excuse to show off his CPR skills.
After using the toilet, I wash my hands and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look and feel tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of men wanting to mold my chairs to their shape. Trying to stoke up some enthusiasm, I make my way back to Darren. He’s sprawled on my leather couch, cup in hand, chomping a cookie and looking irritatingly at home. Spotting me, he pats the seat next to him. I ignore the invitation and settle on the opposite couch.
